Nordstrom and Holt Renfrew are out of touch

And out of their tiny minds.

No, really.  And this:

I’m just embarrassed for any woman of any age who buys clear knee jeans. Dear God.  

The bus shelter in front of my office building has carried this Holt Renfrew ad for the past several weeks. I cringe in embarrassment every time I walk by it:

Any woman who thinks that this ridiculous outfit – what is apparently a swim suit, under a trench coat, with 6″ pink platform heels – is appropriate for any conceivable kind of event, be it party, beach, backyard, workplace, or even Halloween, is out of her mind.

Is this an indictment on the advertising world, that they think women are so gullible as to wear preposterous costumes like this? Or is it an indictment on women because, let’s face it, some gal somewhere must be forking out real $$ for this shit.

So ends my little rant.

We’ll always have Paris

11 years ago this evening, Paula and I were off to our Paris adventure. My favourite place, the Rodin museum.

My sister-in-law is in Rome eating pizza and visiting the Vatican.

I’m revising data-sharing contracts, working like a dog, and can’t figure out anything to do for my 25th wedding anniversary.

I need to reprioritize my life. Paula, we need to plan another trip. Stat.

My Carrie Fisher shrine

I just watched this tribute video to Carrie Fisher and now I want an all Carrie Fisher day:

(Argh. For some reason WordPress refuses to make this a clickable link. Argh.)

I loved her writing. Just pulled out my copy of Postcards from the Edge -hardcover, first edition, 1987.

And I read her follow up novels, Delusions of Grandma and Surrender the Pink.  And of course, Wishful Drinking.  Here’s my little Carrie Fisher book shrine:

I also love her character Marie in When Harry Met Sally. A movie and a role that grows on me with every watching.

Everybody thinks they have a sense of humour and good taste, but they couldn’t possibly all have good taste.

I want you to know, I will never want that wagon wheel coffee table.

Written by my hero Nora Ephron, of course.


If I’m crazy, at least Carol Anne is too

Barb and I went to the ballet this week. Four short pieces. Each one perfect in its own way. Still thinking about Genus, which was brilliant. About figuring out how the body works, what it can do, what it should do. About individualism and becoming part of a community. At least those were the themes that I took away. Possibly the best dance movements I have ever seen.

As we were talking about our daily minutiae, during intermission over the mandatory glass of bubbly, Barb happened to mention that she needed to organize her sock drawer. I was taken aback. How can a sock drawer become disorganized? One pairs the socks as part of the laundry process and puts them away, happily coupled and awaiting mutual use. But NO! Barb’s socks are unpaired in her sock drawer. Deposited uncoupled and alone, willy-nilly. Holy Mother of God. I’ve never heard of such a thing. “I don’t think I could sleep in a house like that,” was my only logical response.

On the way to the subway the next morning, I thought about Barb’s willy-nilly socks, and my reaction was confirmed. I could not sleep if I had unpaired socks in my drawer. I could not rest if Graeme’s socks were unpaired. I started thinking about what other minor bits of chaos would prevent me from sleeping: a cupboard partially open in the kitchen, a towel hanging askew in the bathroom, a painting hanging off-level.  If I knew about them, I would have to get out of bed and fix them.

Am I unglued?

At lunch with Carol Anne yesterday, she 100% agreed. She A) could not fathom how a sock drawer existed where socks were not paired at all times (weird orphan socks from the dryer the only exception); and B) concurred that she could not sleep if she were aware of unpaired socks in her house.

And here’s how I know she wasn’t just humouring me: She told a story. Her partner wears just one kind of sock: plain white sports socks. At the gym recently, he noticed that one sock was tight and the other was slouchy. Reporting this to Carol Anne, she immediately had to go to his sock drawer, take apart all the sock pairs, and ensure that tight went with tight, slouchy with slouchy.

I feel much better now.

More things I love about Nora Ephron

Her essay The Lost Strudel from I Feel Bad About my Neck. I read this very short piece on the subway one morning, years ago, and laughed out loud. And then re-read it immediately.

I’ve had a craving for cabbage strudel ever since (which objectively sounds disgusting), but I’m a bit afraid to try it, since it likely won’t live up to Nora’s praises (even Nora had trouble meeting her own expectations of strudel). And then I’d just be disappointed.  I’m sure Nora would tell me that’s not a healthy way to go through life (were she still with us).

I especially admire the line “I dropped Ed Levine’s name so hard you could hear it in New Jersey.” 

Nora Ephron’s tribute to Meryl Streep. Brilliant, funny – and her delivery is impeccable.  The crowd is mesmerized — when she talks about going into Meryl’s trailer at the end of her tribute, the entire audience of celebs and self-important people hang on her every word:

Plus – what a great outfit, right?

Nora Ephron’s tribute to Mike Nichols (only Nora can make a really bad pun hilarious):



Book review: The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay

I’m a big fan of Nora Ephron.  I first fell in love with her through the short essays she published late in her life, I Feel Bad About My Neck and I Forget Everything.

One of her essays, in I Feel Bad About My Neck, was about the transformative power of great novels.  She wrote the essay having just finished reading The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, a book I’d vaguely heard of but that’s about it.  She talked about being swept away in the world Michael Chabon created, and crying when one of the characters died.  And a lot more than that.

I didn’t rush out and buy K&C the first time I read I Feel Bad About My Neck, but the second or third time I did. It was December 30, 2015; I know because I kept the receipt in the book as a future bookmark.

I didn’t start reading K&C on December 30, 2015, for a couple reasons at least. First, it’s a doorstop, and I knew I’d need a good swath of time to dive into it and finish it.  And second, I’ve been on a bad reading streak for a couple of years now. Reading far too much crappy chick-lit and fluffy fare; easy for the subway, easy for the brain.

I just finished a two-week vacation in Antigua, where I go with hubby (ideally once a year) to get away from work, clients, contracts and colleagues and to indulge in a good mental health break and reading jag.

K&C was the third novel I picked up to read, sitting on a lounge chair beside the quiet pool we frequent. I knew it was going to be good from the first and second pages; I had to put the book down, run to our room and get a pen. There were sentences and phrases I had to underline because they were so perfect. Sammy Clay is described as disheveled on the first page (like he’d just been “jumped for his lunch money”), and exhausted Josef Kavalier is described soon after, slumped “like a question mark” against Sammy’s door after a dramatic escape from Prague to Brooklyn. I may be remembering these turns of phrase incorrectly; I don’t have the book beside me, but I hope I am because they jumped off the page. And that was just pages 1 and 2.

K&C was a bit of a battle of the inner wills for me. The prose is sumptuous. It cries out to be read out loud. Now I understand why John Irving’s Dr. Larch read to the orphans from Charles Dickens every night in Cider House Rules. Sometimes a book doesn’t really come alive unless the words are read out loud, rolled off the tongue, and truly heard and appreciated. The book made me wish, once we were back at home in Toronto, for an ice storm or a thunder storm – something to knock out the power for an extended  period (but not too extended period –it’s winter mind you), just to have an excuse to light some candles in the darkness and read the book aloud to Graeme. I thought he would enjoy it. Now he’s across the aisle on the airplane reading it; I hope he’s enjoying it.

But the prose battled every page with the plot. I’m a big fan of plot, with big stories and big characters. One of my earliest favourite books, possibly still my faviourite book, is Irving’s The World According to Garp.  K&C reminded me of Garp a lot. It reminded me of his Hotel New Hampshire and A Widow for One Year.  It made me want to read Garp and New Hampshire again.  Big juicy audacious reads.

Back to K&C – I repeatedly struggled with savouring the prose vs. skimming ahead to find out what would happen next.  Would Rosa Saks remember that Joe Kavalier was the young man who walked in on her naked in bed in the artists’ den, on the day that K&C create the Escapist? Would Joe rescue his family and bring them to America? Would Sammy find love or lust with Tracy Bacon?  (I loved Tracy – “Mensware?” he says as he leaves the elevator of the Empire State Building to meet Sammy on his volunteer watch for air raids over Manhattan. “Do you have anything in a gabardine?”)

Did I love K&C as much as Nora? I don’t think so.  I loved a lot about it, obviously. Especially the first three parts.  Part Four, Radioman, almost killed me. The shortest of the five parts, it was brutally bleak. Joe Kavalier has volunteered for the Navy to avenge his family’s fate in Nazi-occupied Prague, and a more recent tragedy, and ends up in Antartica of all places on an apparently pointless mission, literally sleeping with the dogs.  Radioman gets bleaker from there, reminding me of the once book club favourite A Fine Balance, where the protagonist ends up limbless on a skateboard at the end of the novel. I mean, holy shit, shoot me now. I felt like that about Radioman.  I suppose its purpose was to test and then restore Joe’s humanity; but it crushed my soul a little bit (did they have to shoot Oyster??), and then Part Five was a bit of a letdown for me too.  I kept comparing it to Garp, which I’m going to re-read, and maybe on re-reading its end will let me down. But it’s hard for any novel, even K&C, to compare to that ending.

I also re-read Nora’s essay, and her love of the book makes me love it that much more.  Let’s cross our fingers for a short-lived ice storm or a lengthy winter thunderstorm. I’ll get the candles and K&C.

You can (and should) read Nora’s essay here: