I'm not immune to falling off chairs

Japan scared the fear of embarrassment right out of me, or at least most of it.

Scared to sound foolish speaking a foreign language? Tough.

Worried about acting the clown in front of a class of jittery kindergarteners? Suck it up.

Made a major cultural boo-boo like forgetting to slurp your noodles or even worse trudging out of the bathroom in the dirty plastic bathroom slippers? Whatever.

It was loud faux pas after faux pas. One of the favourite words my Japanese friends picked up from me was "Oops."

But, as I realized on Friday, I am not immune to embarrassment. Yes, I have managed to put much of it into perspective, but I am not immune.

So, I am sitting at my desk, when a reporter walks by. I call him over because I'm working on his story and I have a few questions. While I'm hitting him with my question after question, he starts fiddling with my funky little phone. I notice and my eyes pop wide. I was in the middle of writing a text on it. To J. I jump up, snatch the phone from his hands, then sit back down. But my bum hits the edge of the chair and it skirts away from me, leaving me sailing to the floor.

Veteran journalist beside me laughs, and says something typically smart about the effect the reporter has on women and don't i know he has a baby? Reporter goes, who's J.?

All around, I am feeling like a bit of a putz. What makes it worse is my constant worry about appearing professional in a newsroom where I am visibly the youngest, an anomaly among veterans.

And just so you all know, there was nothing incriminating on that phone. But I do object to people rifling through my personal e-mails. Especially snoopy reporters. That damn chair just made it seem worse.

At least I know from Japan how to let that momentary slip just be a blip, and not a niggling stressor at the back of my mind.

Nap hatred, and other slumbering thoughts

Exhaustion does not become me. Nor is it conducive to my work.

But I have to say, the worst part about being insanely tired is waking up after a 15-minute nap that accidentally turns into two hours and you're covered in a pattern of red sleep lines, your throat is as parched as a Sunday morning after the bar, your eyelids are two heavy velvet curtains and daylight is fading into night.

I don't like naps.

The second worst part is the inability to fall asleep at your proper bedtime because you've fucked with your internal sleep schedule. You lie there wondering how you could possibly feel this vividly, bright-eyed awake, having forgotten what that ever felt like in your day-long comatose state.

I didn't always hate naps. I still remember when they used to be a nice, natural part of the day ... when I was in kindergarten. In the middle of our half-day, Ms. F would announce naptime and we would all dutifully unroll our towels on the floor (mostly bright beach ones), she'd flip off the lights and we'd konk out for the mandatory 15 minutes. Then we'd be up and at 'em again.

Did you know that humans are the only species that limit all their sleep to one set time? Others sleep several times a day.

That's it. I can't take any more sleep talk. I'm off to bed to try to combat my sudden wide-eyedness in search of slumber.

Holy Marinara Sauce

I like cooking. It's cathartic and tasty. A great combination.

And I like that as with most things in life, the end result depends heavily on the quality of your ingredients.

Tonight, with a few fine fresh ingredients, I impressed my own picky taste buds with a homemade marinara sauce. It was so simple, just the way I like my recipes. Those that make it into my repertoire must be simple enough to be easily memorized, and this one most definitely is.

Try it. You'll impress yourself (and others). I'm writing this as I scarf down my third bowl. My belly is straining the buttons on my pants, but I can't stop eating it.


Marinara Sauce

Put some whole, ripe tomatoes, thickly sliced onions, whole garlic cloves on a baking sheet. Drizzle with olive oil and sprinkle generously with salt and pepper.

Roast for about 30 minutes or until it starts to brown.

Put in a blender, add a handful of fresh basil, then pulse for a minute until smooth.

Pour over spaghetti. Sprinkle with grated mozzarella.

For those who need to know amounts, I used four vine tomatoes, which were a bit bruised and too soft for salad, three cloves of garlic, and just over half a medium-sized onion. Note: the softer the tomatoes are (without being rotten... bruised is ok) makes the sauce sweeter.


I'd love to hear if you tried to make it. Or if you feel like dropping by my apartment, I'd be happy to make it for you too! (If only so I could eat it again.)

To B-town and back

I woke up Monday morning feeling like a hungover wreck. I blame oversleeping.

My weekend was spent in the lap of relaxation -- sleeping, eating, swimming, and lying around at a cottage on Lake Muskoka. All with the heady scent of nature drugging me, making me drowsy.

This summer seemed to stretch on forever, and the weekend retreat to the countryside served as a nice bookend to a summer full of upheavel and change. It was one of two outings where I actually left this city since I first moved here three long months ago.

The weekend, as short as it felt, started on Friday when I hopped on a GO train to Brantford (an ugly hole of a town full of sketchy buildings pockmarked with shattered windows), then changed over to a GO bus to Barrie.

B-town, what I saw of it, was quite manicured and suburban in its chic-wannabe stores tinged with country and bars filled with bambinas of the Sirens variety.

My meanness is in no way a criticism of my time there. It was fun to see where J. lived, his house, his yard, his friends, his bars, his life. A great glimpse for the snoop in me. And I enjoyed it.

After a nite in B-town, it was off to Lake Muskoka for a nite and then finally back to the big city.

As much as I enjoyed the weekend, I have to admit at the end of it all how nice it was to drive up the busy back lane of my building and be home!