Risk and Excitement: The best first day of work. EVER.

The fun continues at Harbourfront Centre!

After my wild and crazy summer working at HFC’s Theatre Camp, September has seen my return to the Centre as an Artist Educator in the School Visits programme.  I really enjoy the title of “Artist Educator,” in case you were curious, because it somehow manages not to take the emphasis off of being an artist.  Artist is still first.  Which I think is really valuable, particularly in this educational setting, because the kids coming to us already have teachers in the traditional sense and they don’t necessarily need another teacher in the same way.  I think what we have to offer as artists first is what makes the programme really unique and valuable.

In a nutshell, here is what happens at my awesome new day job (or one of them, anyway): Teachers contact Harbourfront to register their class for one or more of our programmes, of which there are an almost infinite number.  The head honcho, who is a fairly fabulous lady, gets a feel for what the teacher is after and passes the assignment on to one of us Artist Educators.  We then work with the teacher to meet the needs of his/her classroom, which could mean many, many things, but the general idea is that we teach things that would fall under the headings of history, social studies, urban studies, environmental studies, and social justice education through the lens of whatever our individual artistic strength is—visual arts, performance, dance, music, etc. 

Part of Harbourfront’s mission is to make the arts and culture accessible to everyone in Toronto.  I think this is in large part why so much (if not most) of their programming is free, especially the summer festivals and many of the exhibits.  The School Visits programme is aiming to take that to another level and to not only make it accessible (although there is a small cost) but also to make it relevant and engaging. 

And, of course, one of our goals is to get kids (and ourselves) past that little voice in their (our) heads that says, “I can’t.”

Enter Ramune Luminaire (which is such a rockstar name), our guest for day one of Artist Educator training, also known as Artistic Development (much like teachers have Professional Development).  She is a really cool visual artist who facilitates workshops for all kinds of people, inclusive of everyone from the artistically trained to those who cringe at the thought of picking up a paintbrush.

But, in an effort to remind us that anyone can do art and that this is a really important message to communicate to all of our classes, Ramune started the day by having us make marks on paper to music.  You could use any mark-making tool or substance available, and they were diverse and plentiful, and all you had to do was make some kind of mark on the paper.  It didn’t have to be a picture, it didn’t have to be pretty, it just had to be…

This went on for a while, which was fun…and then we all got an envelope containing something meant to inspire us—a word, a phrase, a picture, an object, etc.—and our assignment was to respond artistically to it somehow.  I thought this was a really fun way to get us creating—and oddly I found that most of the actors in the room felt this was easier than making marks to music.  For me, I liked it because it gave me somewhere to start and something to play with (my envelopes contained objects—a cotton ball and then a sequin, which sort of reflects my life and personality in a strange way…but nevermind that right now).

And it just snowballed from there…

We worked on making books that expressed who we were, our only rules were that we had to take risks and whatever we were doing had to excite us.  And I think those are good rules for art and life, having to take risks and having to be excited about what you’re doing.  Because if you aren’t taking risks then you probably aren’t growing, either personally or artistically, because comfort zones become stagnant spaces fairly quickly.  And because if you aren’t excited about what you’re doing then it probably isn’t meaningful to you and you probably aren’t doing it to the best of your abilities and beyond, and art doesn’t pay well enough for that and well, life is too short to do things that aren’t meaningful and exciting.

Later we were sent out to explore Harbourfront and its immediate neighbourhood, since much of what goes on there is site-specific.  And it was nice to sit there and sketch the Canada Malting Company building (an old warehouse, complete with silos), to people watch, to ponder the waves of the Harbour, and even to appreciate the plastic grass with faux rubber bits of dirt on the West Lawn.  Location has always been important to me, personally and artistically.  Knowing where you are and where you’ve been, these things are so important to figuring out where exactly you’re going.

Of course, the next step was to respond to this artistically…with the same rules as before, but more freedom in terms of the project, the medium, etc.  I had started embroidering paper earlier, which for whatever reason I found really satisfying and interesting artistically, so I decided to stick with it because it was exciting, though somewhat painstaking.  And for my risk, I chose to alter a book I found in the piles of things, a series of essays about the various ethnic groups of Toronto.  While this particular book didn’t necessarily mean anything to me, books have always been sort of sacred to me, and the idea of “defacing” one was a step outside my comfort zone…

This is my final project, unfinished. All the pencil lines still need to be embroidered—it’s time consuming.

At the end of the day, we had all created these wild, original, beautiful things.  And it was so thrilling to be in such a creative environment (and to be paid to be there!!) with so many brilliant and talented people.  It really got the ball rolling and inspired me…

The rest of the week was pretty amazing, too, and maybe I’ll write more about it at a later date, but this one day really drove home to me the value of having a job you love and an outlet for pent up creativity…

This is post is unrelated: my sister is hilarious

This post is completely unrelated to theatre or the arts, really. But it's an email from my sister, The Writer, and is actually too funny not to share. Also, it sort of deals with the joy of a "day job." She has a bright future ahead of her.

Also, she swears a lot...so if you're offended by that kind of thing, you should probably stop reading now.

Still reading?
Ok, don't say I didn't warn you...

Dearest Rick,

I have a method to writing e-mails. When I respond to my multitude of correspondence (I am a popular person and apparently a fucking MAGNET for chain mail), I usually look at everything that was written in the e-mail sent to me and address each point in the same order in which it was presented. And I have to say -- just an observation --that e-mail you wrote was possibly the longest document of all time. On the plus side, I read the whole thingand it was not painful on my eyes. Kudos.

In any case, let us proceed:

Point 1: Snow. In T.O.
Response: Fuck snow.

Point 2: Long-distance relationships.
Response: Fuck long-distance relationships.

Point 3: [Anonymous]'s long-distance relationship.
Response: That sucks. What happened? I like her.

Point 4: Prickly Pear people [This is a long story.]
Response: Who the fuck are the Prickly Pear people? And why are they bitches? And how you gonna own your shit and tell them hoes to step off right quick for you break your left Sorrel off in they ass? These are all pertinent questions.

Point 5: Dog walking with BFG.
Response: You live in a zoo-land. With pee and creatures. And Internet. What a strange twilight zone of a world.
Also, Golden Doodle sounds like someone's massive and highly-valued shit.
Also, animals are like incontinent human beings. I do not tolerate vomit on my couch. Regain your continence, I say.
Also, job hunting has become a hobby of mine, now greatly impeded by the fact that I am employed. Also, no complaints.
Also, I support your yoga pants/not having real jobs correlation. I myself have worn yoga pants everyday this week.

Point 6: You requested an account of Francis' eight-year-old birthday party a la [very big fancy] Hotel.
Response: Fucking ridiculous.

[Roomie] and I show up at 3 p.m. and wander into the hotel side of the [very big fancy] Hotel when we should have gone into the residence tower. God forbid. We proceed to the 12th floor to meet Marge, Executive Assistant to the family, and Nancy the Doormat, Francis' mother. Nancy is nice, smiles often, and is kind of old to have a young child. No offense, Nance. Francis' father, Frank, looks like a pot-bellied, balding pedophile. He followed his son around all afternoon with a creepy half-smile.

In any case, [Roomie], me, and Carlos the bellhop load balloons, face paint, and loot bags onto a hotel cart and head over to the Atlantic room on the hotel side to set up. When we arrive there are linen table cloths and small Fiji waters on the buffet table. Someone is presenting the Juicy Juice boxes in a fucking Longaberger basket and there are waiters in full uniform (complete with bowtie) preparing to wait on eight-year-olds, possibly the most degrading gig of their lives.

As we wait for Nancy to bring over Francis and her husband, Marge provides us with the Xeroxed, highlighted, colour-coded, seizure-inducing schedule of Francis' eighth birthday, including a fifteen minute increment for arrival and shuttling of children to the appropriate room, checking tiny midget coats and sticking nametags on snot-nosed kids so that when I feel inclined to yell, "Stop the fucking shenanigans, you heathen bastard," I can instead take a deep breath, calm my nerves and respond in a simpering voice, "Stop the fucking shenanigans, Sebastien, you heathen bastard." We assemble with four other babysitters, all of whom are post-college twenty-somethings and find this entire experience just as ridiculous as [Roomie] and I do.

There is one guy, Tim, who is a godsend in the presence of twenty or so young boys who apparently fear eye contact with females other than their mothers. The children dance briefly on the checkerboard dance floor to Rihanna and Chris Brown before realizing that dancing is stupid and tackling is awesome. In the presence of Nancy and Marge, I'm not sure how forceful to be in my disciplinary actions. I should also mention that, prior to the arrival of the other children, Francis ran into the Atlantic room, did not respond to our hellos, informed us that he had a fever, and then walked over to the corner. When Marge brought up a game called "Leopards on the Loose," Francis insisted that it be called "Leprechauns on the Loose," and the nine adults in the room spent the next twenty minutes frantically coaxing out of the child what we would call the people the Leprechauns would be capturing in the game.

From the moment they entered, the girls were clearly the most well-behaved. While the boys attempted to asphyxiate one another with hula hoops, the girls used them for hula hooping. The face paint that Francis so vehemently opposed ended up being the highlight of the party, and I got to make children look ridiculous without being punished for it. Two kids had green faces, and I drew a dragon on someone's cheek that looked like a circle. When the girls came over for face paint, they requested a guitar on their left cheek with sparkles and glitter and stars and hearts and flames and ponies and magic in the center. I painted a guitar in the two inches of free face they had and then dabbed some colours inside. Fucking Picasso.

By the end of the day, I had all but ripped off Sebastien's arm, who seemed unfamiliar with the abstract concept of stay-on-the-mother-effing-dance-floor. Tim walked around with a megaphone, trying to convince the heathens that they were "helpers," and without him we probably all would have died. Or maybe a child would have. Whatever.

We gathered up coats, distributed loot bags, and ate some cake. Francis puked later on, and by six-thirty I had made a hundred bones for smearing washable face paint on children and memorizing the problem kid's name. As [Roomie] and I left, I realized that Nancy the Doormat had given each of the six crowd-control sitters a hundred dollars, and I tried to imagine how much the gourmet pizza and the high-end juice boxes might have cost but I thought I might cry if I knew those numbers. So I went home and drank heavily. It was a good night.

The end.

Point 7: Original thoughts I might like to add.
I am going to NY this weekend. Irresponsible. Huzzah.

KBYE.

xoxo,
dfg

A Day in the Life of a Dog Walker

I used to work at Victoria's Secret. Then I was a camp counsellor (ok, well, I've been doing that since I was 16). Next came being a professional internet surfer receptionist. Now I walk and board dogs. Although I'm looking for something else on the side while I develop a larger clientele. I kind of want an Etsy store because I think it would be fun...but I digress.

Part of figuring out how to be an artist in the modern day real world is figuring out how not to actually starve. This is what is known as the day job. Now, I've decided that mine must be at least somewhat satisfying or I will lose my mind. It's all about finding interesting and viable alternatives. So here is a day in my day job life:

7:30 a.m. Early morning bathroom trip for me. The three dogs sprawled across my one room apartment look at me briefly in the hopes that this means it's time for a walk. They are sadly disappointed.

7:35 a.m. Phone rings. Seriously? I am intrigued as to who is calling me at this hour and, more importantly, why. This office doesn't open until 9. Sometimes 11. Someone needs their dog walked. Today. I absorb as many details as possible at this ungodly hour.

7:36 a.m. I am asleep again. Now the three dogs are all in my bed.

9:10 a.m. Shocked that none of the puppies are whining to go out yet. I walked them late last night for this reason. Phone rings again. My aunt, the original dog walker. We're meeting up for a puppy party.

9:35 a.m. On our way. The Black Lab poops on someone's lawn, sidewalk, and driveway for a solid ten minutes. This is gross. It's also part of the job. The first bag has a hole in it. I curse the fates and wipe the liquid dog poo off my hand. Yeah, you're icked out now, aren't you? It isn't even noon.

9:47 a.m. We make it to the off leash park. No puppy party yet. I feed the Lab my apple core. Labs will eat anything. Which probably explains the events of 9:35 a.m.

9:50 a.m. The aunt comes zipping around the corner with a Duck Toller in her front seat (like a Golden Retriever, but more of a redhead). Three Black Labs, a black Golden Doodle, a Weimeraner mutt, the Toller, and a Collie-like dog pile out of the vehicle. That's seven dogs, in case you weren't keeping track. I have three. This makes ten. Basic math is key to walking dogs.

9:54 a.m. We let them off leash.

9:55 a.m. Three dogs are rolling in mud puddles. This includes my white long haired Golden Doodle. Then they drink the water. Blech. Now they smell like swamp.

9:56 a.m. They chase tennis balls and each other around for an hour. There is a fat Black Lab named Lizzie. They pick on her. Playground dynamics work in the dog world too, it seems.

11:01 a.m. Time to start heading home or they'll run until they drop dead. They're far more subdued on the walk home. We creep into my building quietly. I am avoiding the landlady. I do not want to answer questions about why I have these three crazy dogs. I feel it could be detrimental to the tenant-landlord relationship.

11:10 a.m. After having a drink splashing water all over my floor and wrestling on my bed, it's time for a puppy nap. The Golden Doodle takes the bed, the Black Lab takes the couch, and the little one whose breed I can't remember and whom I will therefore refer to as Little Bitch takes the giant dog bed. I relax.

11:12 a.m. I sign into Twitter to see what's going on in the world. It's behaving strangely this morning. The Black Lab vomits all over my couch.

11:30 a.m. I have finished cleaning my couch. Fortunately I am smart and had it covered with a sheet. Google Reader time. The puppies are watching The View. We flipped a coin and I lost so they got to pick the station. Either that or I only have two and I don't do soap operas that aren't Coronation Street.

11:58 a.m. I am restless and feel compelled to troll craigslist for a second job. Then I realize that none of these jobs look fun. I play Snood instead.

12:03 p.m. The Golden Doodle is still covered in dirt and dead leaves. I throw him in my bathtub and climb in after him. We do bathtub battle until his paws are clean. As if my apartment isn't already destroyed.

12:35 p.m. Pilates Pocahontas texts me to see if I want to do lunch. I decide this is an excellent idea but that it requires me to pull my life together.

1:04 p.m. I get to my regular Black Lab's house to let him out for his midday bathroom break. On the counter are puppy booties, saran wrap, duct tape, and a leash. He is perpetually injured. This is another Lab trait. I put the booty on over his already bandaged foot. I haven't seen him in a week but apparently his toenail issues have not resolved themselves.

1:26 p.m. Broken Black Lab is done hopping and hobbling around the neighbourhood. I feed him many treats. He is a treat whore. He will do just about anything for treats. I will do just about anything for chocolate. So we understand each other.

1:39 p.m. I arrive at the home of the new puppy, the 7:30 a.m. phone call puppy. He appears confused. He doesn't know me and his response is to pretend he's a statue. Worst. Guard. Dog. Ever. But it works well for me at this particular moment. And we wander through the park.

2:09 p.m. I return the new puppy to his home and spend just enough time fiddling with the very complicated lock to miss the bus. I decide to just follow the bus route and walk to the subway station instead of waiting 20 minutes for a bus.

2:17 p.m. I am lost in Rosedale. This is inevitable. But I can still see the C.N. Tower, so I figure not all is lost. And I continue to head in what I think is the direction of the subway.

2:29 p.m. I cross the longest, sketchiest pedestrian bridge (or maybe I just don't like heights) and wind up at Sherbourne subway station. Not where I intended, but not so far off track. I head downtown.

2:45 p.m. At Yonge and Adelaide I find out P.P. had her car and could've rescued me from the labrynth of Rosedale. But I'm hungry and that's more important. We go to Fran's Restaurant. We share Mozzarella Sticks. I have Eggs Benedict. She has nachos and salad. We talk about Very Important Things. While wearing yoga pants. Because real clothes are for people with real jobs.

4:00 p.m. We've paid our bill. I was supposed to be walking my friend the Wheaton about half an hour ago. Really, this is not a big deal. But I feel guilty because he is probably thinking where the eff is she right now? P.P. drives me all the way to the Mt. Pleasant and Davisville region. It takes longer than it should because Toronto traffic is dumb.

4:34 p.m. I walk the Wheaton in the Belt Line, which is the trail/park that begins behind Mt. Pleasant Cemetery. He panics at the bridge over Yonge Street. He's afraid of subway trains.

5:02 p.m. I take the bus home. I decide I am allowed to be a bit lazy. Lazy continues chez moi.

7:00 p.m. Oh, how I love Coronation Street.

7:30 p.m. I skip Jeopardy to walk the puppies. They've earned it. Little Bitch pulls on the leash the whole way. It is otherwise uneventful.

8:03 p.m. We return home. Now they wrestle and chase each other from the bed to the floor, across the couch, back to the floor, and onto the bed again. Eventually they will settle. Until then I will ignore them.

9:12 p.m. Puppies are unconscious. Amazing. I am free to enjoy the interwebs.

10:21 p.m. My friend the Ski Instructor texts me to tell me she is bored on a date with her work place "boyfriend." He thinks they're dating, she thinks they're just sleeping together. The thing about dog walking is that the only office drama is about who is being a ball hog at the park. Wait, maybe they are the same thing.

11:37 p.m. Last late night walk to the end of the street and back. They look reluctant to move until I pick up a leash. The Black Lab is snoring. I understand how they feel as this exercise requires me to put pants on. But now they will sleep until I decide to wake up. Or someone calls. You know, whatever.

And that is more or less how it goes. Of course, I don't have three dogs living with me on a regular basis, but you know, you get the idea. I appreciate the flexibility, even on a busy day. Plus, it keeps me sane in that animals are all about keeping it real. With them, it is what it is and there really isn't any B.S. Plus, I get a lot of exercise and I get to be outside. So I thought I'd share that with all of you.

And, of course, I want to know what you do for your day job? And, more importantly, what keeps you from losing your minds while you do it?

I am not blogging because I'm reading...

Why this picture? Meh, why not?

Today I haven't been up to speed on blogging. And last night I was too yoga-wrecked to write anything. Also, I feel like I have a ten second attention span right now. It's great for Twitter, not so hot for blogging (and if you haven't yet joined Twitter, I think you're missing out). So today I am just reading all the interesting things all of you out there have to say. There are lots. I am not linking to them. Because I'm lazy. But I did reorganize my little sidebar business (look to the right) with all kinds of fun links, so if you click one (or two...or twenty) chances are you will find something interesting.

I am all attention deficit-y because tomorrow is my last day at the day job (heartbreak) and I am trying to get six million things done. Actually six million. That is in no way an exaggeration. I'm also freaking out because I have auditions next week and if they go well I might be able to trick someone into paying me to act (YES!!!). And, finally, I will be sort of unemployed on Monday. Which is daunting and exhilarating at the same time. There is just so much potential...

I am curious, though, what do the rest of you out there do for your day jobs? And, what do you do when you don't have one? Other than the obvious, which is look for one. This is new territory for me, in many ways...as is just about everything...and I am always interested in what other people have to say. How do you deal with all kinds of free time and no real structure when you're used to having not enough of the former and a ton of the latter?

Bringing the LOLs into 09.

So far this year:

• I've had an audition saga (story still to come).
• I've been hit on by a lazy-eyed, probably intoxicated, Eastern European creeper on the TTC.
• I've forgotten essential-to-my-existence post-its at the office over the weekend.
• I've scalded myself/destroyed my kitchen with black bean soup.
• I've spent an hour and fifteen minutes on the TTC due to a lack of communication with my car service (AKA uncle). The irony here is that I took the subway so as not to be late for work.
• As of 10:20 AM, I am writing this by hand because our internet is down.

Epic fails all around. If we're taking stock of the new year so far, mine may not be off to the best start.

But all I can really do is laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Which is exactly what I'm doing now.

Weekend Update.

I successfully survived Snowmageddon. And Snowmageddon 2.0, a.k.a Saturday night. Although I did spend several somewhat frustrating hours waiting for my siblings to arrive at Union Station in the interim. I met a family from North Bay and a cat named Mozart.

It was a weekend of work-related events. I was going to say office parties, but since I worked at a children's summer camp that wouldn't be an entirely accurate assessment of the situation. But it was back-to-back Saturday and Sunday night. I suppose, really, I should just be grateful to have had work Christmas parties: one very sad friend of mine informed me that his place of employment "cancelled Christmas." My office's version of recession economics was a limit on champagne. And really, there's nothing like making drunken small talk with your colleagues.


This whole working in a real office thing has been very interesting for me, sort of like a window into a parallel universe. It's not something I ever really thought I would do and, I have to say, it hasn't been terrible. Granted, it's a little exhausting, somewhat creatively stifling, and quite frequently boring, but on a good day, it's also kind of fun. It's organized, structured, constant...something that theatre generally is not. And I can appreciate that. On a short term, basis, anyway. I still maintain that in the long run I would probably have to poke my eyes out with the letter opener...

And I like to think I have brought some of my actress's energy to the workplace--actually, I'm sure I have. While work ethic translates through all professions, the politics of each profession and place of employment are different. Now, this office is fairly laid back, but it still doesn't have quite the same feel as a rehearsal room. But there are similarities and sometimes I think they are almost the same if you can only draw those things out--you can still have a serious place of business and a laugh at the same time. I think I have encouraged everyone here not to take things too seriously. Have a little fun, too, as long as you still get your work done. We're not machines, after all.

And now that I feel I've brightened the experience and accomplished something here, it's just about time to get out. I need to do something creative again (even better if I could get paid for it) for my own survival and sanity, whatever that might mean.

A very successful producer on a panel discussion I attended said that he admires actors because they have one of the hardest jobs. He told us, if you can imagine yourself doing anything else, do that instead. But the problem is I really can't. And that is what is so terrifying, the fact that I have to do this.

I am in it now, for better or worse.

Snowmageddon.

Snowmageddon in the GTA: I had a picture I waited five minutes to take of the passing streetcar and the swirling snow. But someone stole my camera cord. Someone is dead. Anyway, further blogging will be suspended today in light of insane snow storm currently raging outside.

The very kind bosses even bought everyone sushi lunch so we wouldn't have to go outside. Except I had to go outside with said boss to pick it up. I even had to ride in the backseat as a result of giant box o' sushi. But it was delicious. I now feel like a large piece of raw fish. We are what we eat, after all.

Anyway, closing shop early in order to go home and bond with mug of coco and couch. Stay warm and safe!

Good night, Grand Aspirations. (Good morning, Reality.)

As if the epic amounts of snow that seeped into my ballet flats on my way to work this morning (I, genius that I am, forgot my winter boots at the office last night...and, by winter boots, I mean Uggs, which anyone who has ever stepped in a cold slush puddle whilst wearing them knows aren't really winter boots), I was reminded of the harsh reality of my life this morning when the first courier into our office was wearing an ACTRA Toronto toque. We had a chit chat that basically amounted to how I don't have a reel, an agent, or, it would seem, a hope.

I am consoling myself with the fact that his toque said ACTRA and not AEA because I don't really want to do film, commercials, or television that badly anyway. He did, though, take care to remind me that it's almost impossible to make a living in the theatre. He was a nice enough guy, it's the facts themselves that are distressing...

A very wise and experienced man, one of my favourite theatre critics/professors, once told me that, while it is very difficult to make a living in the theatre, it is quite possible to make a life in the theatre. So which would you rather have? A life or a living?

Morning Report.

Well, I'm one cappuccino in and still nowhere near awake. This is the kind of day it's going to be...I will have our little espresso machine working overtime. Actually, I spent these hours yesterday morning researching new espresso machines because our current model is so overworked. We need one with a higher capacity.


Anyway, I babysat far too late last night--although it was lucrative, $$$ plus a can of Pringles. Bonus. And have now dragged myself into work via TTC. The morning has not, however, been a total waste. I finally discovered the RSS feed for Department of Culture. I enjoy visiting actual websites, but sometimes I forget. So I add them on Google Reader, which is my latest obsession, clearly. Although it's kind of boring today.

In other blogosphere news, and another without a feed, which is incredibly disappointing...Elyse Sewell's journal is featured this month on LiveJournal (yes, I used to have one of those, which is how I know, but I no longer play that game so let's drop it). She placed third in the first season of America's Next Top Model. I didn't watch. Now she is based out of Hong Kong and girlfriend is pretty hilarious. And she has some fairly excellent adventures. Plus, she posts lots of crazy pictures. I have thoroughly enjoyed it. Enough to check it independent of my Google Reader. I know, big step.

It has also inspired me to take more wacky pictures of my everyday life, although Toronto may be less exciting than Hong Kong in that, well, it's Toronto. And not at all foreign to me. Most of the time. But we shall see. So that's the new life initiative. The Plurius Pictureus Initiative.

And now off to the Prague as it is lunchtime. Delicious, by the way. And big portions for small dollars. Plus, excellent/quick service.

Weekend Happenings in the TDot.

It's been a busy day at the office so far--my Outlook decided to crash and the beginning of the month means lots of invoices and paperwork. So while the arts/politics scene seems far more interesting at the beginning of this week than it did at the end of last, it seems I won't be blogging much today. But there are a few things not to be passed up:


I liked the above picture from BlogTO, which accompanied this article about the pro-Coalition rally in Toronto this weekend. It was pretty big, estimated to be between 2-3,000 people. Which is actually kind of pathetic when you consider the actual population of Toronto...but the Conservative rally at Queen's Park only drew about 500, so I suppose by comparison...There are more pictures on BlogTO, check it out.

The rallies were also covered by much of the mainstream press and the whole issue seems to be fairly divisive. Apparently the Conservative rallies outside the GTA were huge. Harper is getting far more support everywhere else, or so it would seem. And I am still too new to the current Canadian political scene, having spent the better part of the last fourteen years or so in the US, to claim to be anything close to an expert--which perhaps makes me like any other 'ordinary' Canadian...except I care about the arts...it really is all very confusing. Whatever the case may be, I cannot see how proroguing Parliament, which means the Government is at a standstill on resolving the issue of our ever-tanking economy, possibly solves anything. Perhaps it just postpones the inevitable, whatever that may be. But this is more politics than arts...or is there a difference? Should there be one?

I'll go ponder that while I deal with some invoices.

Yummy.

I am (sort of) patiently waiting for 5:00 when we celebrate my co-worker's birthday so I can devour this chocolate truffle cake from Dufflet. If you live in Toronto and have a sweet tooth you absolutely have to check them out. The cakes are a bit expensive, but the tarts are a pretty good size and reasonably priced. Everything is delicious; you really can't go wrong.

Fingers and Toes

Babysitting this weekend.
I got paid to go get a free manicure and pedicure.

The catch?
The 2 year old and the 6 year old got their nails done, too.

Yes, I took a 2 year old for her first mani/pedi.
Hot pink with white polka dots.
Super cute.

Day jobs are painful.

I electrocuted myself at work today.
Seriously.

I'm a receptionist.
Electrocution is not in my job description.