My bad

Here's the mea culpa I put on my other blog site at Osprey, confessing to being a bad blogger. You should see what some people are saying about me!

If I’m being honest, there aren’t too many things I think I’ve failed at during my 29 years.

I did poorly in art classes. A couple of my relationships have combusted. There are relationships in my life right now that, no matter how hard I try, how much I think about them, how much I will them to work, I can’t make happen. I have really ugly fingernails and never get to the esthetician for a manicure. My blog on the Osprey site fell apart in December. I can’t stop eating cheese. I never go the gym. Hmmm. Maybe I’ve failed at more things than I’ve realized but one thing hurts more than others and I’ll repeat it here for you: My blog here fell apart in December.
Some of you may remember that was I posting blogs here in late 2005. Some of you liked the light-hearted chit-chat, others spewed venom at me for being an airhead, not talking about politics or social policies and some of you were kind, some of you cruel.
My last blog here was on December 6. It has been three months since I’ve written anything and I can give you a grocery list of what went wrong: It was the holidays, then it was Christmas. New Year’s was in there somewhere. Then, I went on vacation and didn’t have Internet access. Then I started the process of buying a house. And there was work. And family. And fun life stuff – and the truth is I ran out of time.
When it comes to work, I’m a perfectionist, a neurotic perfectionist, and so I tried to make every blog a sparkling piece of writing and if I couldn’t do it, I decided not to write at all.
But I’ve decided to come back and give this one more try.
We’ll see what happens. I’ll try and point you to interesting things and you feel free to say whatever your heart desires but I’ve come to accept something over the last three months when people have nagged: Whatever happened to that blog of yours?
I’m not perfect and so my blog can’t be either
And yes, I intentionally left the period off that last sentence just to see how long I can last before I re-open this post, edit it and put that period on.

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Ooh, that stings. That's nice.

Why do you think your special someone, sweetie-sweetie loves you? Go on, ask. See if she can come up with something lovely, romantic and original. She is not allowed to say: "You had me at hello" or "You complete me" or "You're my other half."
The best thing I've heard in ages came from Sting. Yes, Sting.
I've read many stories about how the musician and his wife, Trudie Styler, have a fab, um, time together but this is really, really sweet.
"She was the relationship that saved me," he has said.
"She knew me, and despite knowing me, she loved me."

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Catch Me If You Can

Aha! Tag, you're it, Mr. Hurtz.
You blog about me and I'll blog about you.
You might be faster but I have better hair.
Is beauty mightier than the pen?
(And yes, I love short sentences.)
And paragraphs.
Bye.

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Rewind

Someone be a genius and explain DVDs to me.
There is a whole massive world out there to explore and yet, friends of mine, smart, lovely people, buy DVDs of their favourite TV shows and movies and watch them over and over and over again.
Does anyone really need to own all the seasons of The Trailer Park Boys?
How many times does one need to watch Wedding Crashers?
Is anyone really going to argue that the Fabulous Four was so fabulous you had to see it a second time?
Granted, when I was a youngin' I bought Grease on VHS but that movie is a classic. But now there are all these people who are hopelessly devoted to every film.
Put down the DVD. Slowly back away. Good. Now grab your wallet and go to the Screening Room. It's in the middle of Kingston on Princess Street. It's charming and you can order hot chocolate with whipped cream in real mugs at the snack bar.
The End.

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Twenty nine and feeling oh-so fine

Today, is the second best day of the year. It's my birthday. (Christmas is No. 1. I get more gifts.)


Much has happened this year and I spend long hours sitting in front of my computer at work but I don't look my age, don't ya think? Not a day past 25. OK, 26. It's actually 27. No, 28. OK, it's 29.
I'm one year away from the big 3-0. Yowzers.
Here are some things I'd like to do before I turn 30 in 2007:
* Use my blender I got at Christmas.
* Take another salsa dancing class. The boyfriend and I took a class and we were pretty darn good. I am so Jennifer Grey.
* Go apple picking in the fall.
* Finally see Brokeback Mountain.
* Get engaged.
* Kick my addiction to US, Star and In Touch. People magazine is OK. My mom reads it. And she's a teacher.
* Start saving money to go on my honeymoon to Hawaii. Remember, I'm getting engaged.
Tis all for now.
Since it's my birthday and I'm in a very cheery mood, I'll give all you men a free piece of advice. Treat your sweetie today like it's her birthday. Go kiss her on the forehead and tell her she looks beautiful and you can't imagine your life without her.
sarah :)

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Jelly On My Belly. Hey, it rhymes

It's Saturday morning and I've just finished my breakfast. An omelette made by my sweetie complete with a "savoury brioche" from Kingston's Pan Chancho bakery.
I put on my "skinny jeans" and then ... oops.
Have you ever packed on a few pounds, sorta forgotten that they're there, and then zipped up your jeans over those jelly rolls, only to catch your belly in the zipper?
Um, yeah, me neither.

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The lion sleeps tonight (Wimoweh. Wimoweh. Wimoweh.)

I noticed something was different last summer.
I saw the way he looked at her.
Smiled at her.
He was always on the phone, whispering and giggling and he always took those calls in another room. He started paying more attention to how he looked. Soon, his closet was full of new clothes and he became maniacal about going to the gym. Before I knew it, he was going on about what "product" he used in his hair.
It wasn't too long before they were sitting just a little too close - and in front of my parents no less!
I knew things had changed forever last weekend when my father phoned to say he and my mother were popping into Kingston for a visit. But where was my beloved brother? "He's spending the day with his girlfriend. You've been replaced! You're not his No. 1 girl anymore!" my father cackled like a lame movie villain. Think Dr. Evil from Austin Powers.
I've always had a soft spot for Ryan.
I remember when I was five years old and he was just a baby running around our house in his walker. I wanted to play with him so badly, I would tip him over and let him roam free. When we were children, we were playmates, especially at the cottage in the summertime. We went on marathon bike rides, went frog hunting and played Monopoly, Trouble and Yahtzee for hours at a time.
When we were both older, our parents stuffed us into our mini van for three-week sightseeing trips. One summer we drove to Newfoundland. The next year, we went to British Columbia. It was on one of those trips that I tormented my brother by (with) making him my backup singer. Every day, I'd make him sing The Lion Sleeps Tonight with me. But here's the catch. Because it was my song, I got to sing the melody: "In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight." And my poor brother was relegated to bass-line duty.
For hours, in his best low voice, had to repeat: "Wimoweh. Wimoweh. Wimoweh."
More than a decade later, he's still mad at me for the song torture and says I caused him emotional distress.
Just over a year ago, I went home to tell my family about my new boyfriend. He was a teeny, tiny bit older - and has two children. I thought it was the kind of news I should tell my parents in person. I decided my brother would be my barometer. I nervously explained I had something important to him and, for some reason, I was a little nervous.
Without a word of lie, this is what he said: "Oh, Sarah. As long as you're not doing something crazy like dating some 40-year-old, it'll be OK." I looked at Ryan and explained that the boyfriend was definitely not 40.
He was 45.
And then we laughed until we cried.
I know we have many more good times ahead of us but I'll tell you this. If he misses my birthday next weekend, the lion will awake.

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Curb appeal

(This column appears March 4 in The Ticket, the weekend magazine that I edit that appears inside The Kingston Whig-Standard)

I've learned two things about myself while I've been house hunting.

1) House shopping makes me insane.
2) House shopping has greatly improved my vocabulary.
This week, it was almost all over. I thought I was going to become a homeowner. There I was, sitting in a coffee shop with the boyfriend and our real estate agent, signing another offer on another house. We wanted this perfect little house so badly that we had increased our budget so much that I was starting to feel nauseated, woozy and crazy. Half of me was really trying to pay attention to what the boyfriend and our agent were saying about the deal but the other half of me was lost in the sea of zeros on our offer. I was trying to figure out how many trips to Maui, Paris or New York City I could take for the same amount I was willing to dish on this pile of bricks and mortar (and, OK, fabulous Jacuzzi bath tub.) Pre-approved ... Home inspection ... Re-sale value ... Mortgage ... Sign back ... Home equity line of credit ... Assessed value ...Property tax ... Closing date ...The broker ... The banker ... The candlestick maker ... The terms were swirling around my head and I could really only think of one phrase. I felt like it was hanging over my head, flashing in red neon lights for all to see: House poor! House poor! House poor! As I signed a million times on the dotted line, I really was starting to feel a tidal wave of panic wash over me. I had barely noticed that a lovely looking, older woman, who looked like someone's sweet grandmother, had wandered over from her table to ours. "Excuse me, dear," she said so quietly, she was almost whispering. I looked up from my pile of paperwork and smiled at her. I honestly thought she was going to tell me I looked poor and pasty and perhaps I should lie down for while. "Are you the editor of The Ticket?" she asked. This was it, I thought. I'm in the middle of signing an offer that effectively swallows every cent I've ever had and will ever have and now, this very lovely older reader was going to launch into some sort of complaint about the newspaper. I took a deep breath and waited for it.
"You're much prettier in person, dear," she said quietly with a big smile.
And after that, for a few precious seconds, I no longer felt like I had the house-buying hysteria because I had what truly, really matters in this world.
I, Sarah Crosbie, have curb appeal.

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