my kind of christmas

Josh picked me up outside my apartment in his police model sedan.

"Are you practicing to be a Zeyde already? You are only 36, correct?"

But really, I am 33 and have never owned a car, so who am I to judge?

He greeted me with a kiss. I proudly handed him a birthday card with the message written in Hebrew. I didn't know I still had it in me, but the hebrew cursive just flowed. My hebrew school teacher would have been even more impressed than Josh was.

We drove down a deserted Yonge Street, the line that runs from the north suburbs, south to the downtown core, dividing the city in half. He lit a cigarette.

"Seriously? You are going to do this to me again?"

He laughed.

"Is it really funny to smoke cigarettes in a confined space with an ex-smoker?"

"The window is open."

"Still, I am inhaling smoke. You realize your killing me." I stuck my head out the window like a golden retriever, only not to feel the wind in my...fur.

He was not impressed.

We arrived at the theatre to see Kite Runner. I treated us to VIP tickets, which turned out to be not nearly as cool as I expected, attracting mostly the octogenarian set. It was a small theatre and the heat was on too high. Partway through the film I left to go to the washroom. When I came back I realized how stuffy the room was, smelling of an odd combination of drakar noir and farts. And yet the movie made it all worthwile.

For dinner we went to Chinatown and ate Vietnemese pho, which reminded me of the days when we used to go to chinatown after the bars closed. It would be 3 AM and we would order, "cold tea" and eat entire drunken meals. I wonder if they still serve cold tea anywhere. These days I'm lucky if Josh will leave the suburbs let alone stay out late. Tonight we had ordinary hot tea and I ordered rare beef pho with tons of chili sauce. It was delicious as always.

Now I'm home and packing for London. The Queen [but mainly my sister] is awaiting my arrival. Cheerio.

Happy Christmas as they say in England. Happy New Year too. May the new year bring us all much happiness.

eye to eye

It always amazes me how people can see things so differently. Most of the time I am thankful for it. This world would be boring and even more competitive if we all liked the same things.

I've been to see a few movies lately, two of which were excellent and two of which were bad. So bad.

Interestingly, the common denominator in all four is that they were well received by reviewers. I just don't get it.

Excellent:

(1) No Country for Old Men
(2) Juno

Terrible:

(1) Lars and the Real Doll
(2) I'm Not Here [the Bob Dylan movie]

No Country for Old Men was fucking scary. The desert backdrop was unbelievable and the silence was a powerful tool to create tension. The bad guy was so scary I still cannot get him [or his weapon] out of my head.

Juno was 'Superbad"-funny, but with heart, and best of all it was not predictable in the way that so many movies are.

Lars and the Real Doll was a waste of my time. Harry spent two hours throwing popcorn at me. I have a high threshold for slow movies. I have what you might call movie-patience. I am known to reserve judgment until the end, always in the hopes that a movie will bring it together or redeem itself in some way. Lars and the Real Doll was a challenge, and inevitably a disappointment.

I'm Not Here was just trying too hard. Most of the acting was mediocre. More than that, I found the characters blatantly annoying. I didn't even think Cate Blanchett did such a great job. It was just eh.

'they' can piss off

Patting myself on the stomach, I wonder how long it will take me to undo the damage I've inflicted on myself. In line with my decision to cut myself a little slack lately, I refrain from thinking too hard on it.

I have added chocolate and too many refined carbs back into my life. I feel obliged to mention my addiction to lasagna. I have even occasionally replaced my morning yogurt and blueberries with a muffin [gasp].

If you eat a muffin you might as well be eating cake, they say. "They".

Fine then. So I've been eating cake. And I haven't been spending much time at the gym. My foot is much better, and I can ride the stationary bike no problem, but I just do not love it like I love other things.

I spent the summer and the fall running outside, down maple-lined streets and ravine trails, and playing tennis on any public court we could find. In the past I have turned to spinning in the winter and have been a big fan, but I have not been ready to go back this year. I feel too delicate somehow for the loud music and the instructor yelling into his microphone. I do not crave that kind of motivation.

I guess I fell in love with being outside this year and I have yet to come to terms with the winter. I can still see the freckles on my shoulders if I look close enough.

Now being outside, trudging through the December snow, the cold is almost painful. I want to grow a love for that too, but I can not quite find the right angle. I never have. Even my rasta-hat that I bought back in August [which Harry calls my babushka] is not enough. Close though. Good intentions. So help me I'm trying.

Soon I will be away, out of my element [and 'the elements', hopefully]. For now I permit myself to take it easy. Maybe today I will go to yoga.

I can see something on the horizon. Can not yet make out what it is.

i've got moves you've never seen

I recently discovered something on the interweb that could pull anyone out of a funk. Better than prozac.

Everyone is doing it.

You can too.

PS: Seriously? The kid in the front row in the ballet class? He deserves some kind of award for enthusiasm.

PPS: Bonus points for anyone who knows where the title of this post came from without googling.