Thursday, January 20, 2011
Gentle readers, I neglect you - I am aware of this and I do apologize. However, my current neglect is not due to my usual general rubbishness - in this instance, it's a combination of being Zombie Miss K (still struggling with terrible insomnia), having several time-consuming work projects on the go, and most importantly, desperately trying to find a place to live before the end of January. It's a long and very boring story, but suffice it to say that if I don't find something by then, you can all come and visit me at the Pont Neuf, because I will be sleeping under the bridge in a cardboard box! Aieeee!
Anyway, the point is that right now I am very deep in panic-and-stress mode, so I'm not good company - I'm like that boring uncle that everyone avoids at family parties because he's just no fun to be around, and frankly, gentle readers, I don't want to subject you to that. So for the time being, I'm going to just be posting photos for a little while until I find a rat-infested broom closet to live in, and then I can start writing again. Wish me luck...
Friday, January 14, 2011
Yes, yes, I know I left Toronto two weeks ago, but I was sifting through my photos and they were making me laugh, so I just had to do one more post about my wonderfully weird hometown before getting fully back to the goings-on in Paris. Yes, I'm going to be one of those annoying people who make you look at their holiday photos - sorry!
This is a little family Xmas tradition - the building of the gingerbread houses. There were five of them this year (so it's a bit more like building a whole gingerbread suburb, actually) but this was my favourite house - please note the giant plume of icing "smoke" coming from the chimney, and the chocolate-button bosoms on the gingerbread lady. Hee! Outstanding...
A lovely friend, whom I have known since I was eight years old, took me out for a very boozy lunch one day (ahh, she knows me so well) and this little piece of weirdness was on the wall of the restaurant bathroom. And I think I speak for us all with a resounding "Huh? Why? What the -? Why would you -? Huh??" See, I told you before that Canadians are slightly strange - in the nicest possible way, of course.
On another day, I was out for a very boozy dinner (yes, apparently there was a theme to my Toronto visit) with some other friends, and we went to this lovely restaurant. Isn't it nice? Doesn't it look like a reasonably sophisticated dining establishment? Well, scroll on down to the next photo...
...because this is the outdoor seating area for the above restaurant. Yes, those are hay bales. Hee! So. Freakin'. Awesome.
For those of you who don't personally know Miss K, here's a bit of info about me: I hate dry food - things like toast are my idea of hell. Ugh. But I love sauce, gravy, everything like that (at family holiday dinners, I'm actually not allowed to have the gravy boat until everyone else has their turn, because I would cheerfully just take it all), so when dining out, I always ask for extra sauce - and in Toronto, when you ask for extra, they give you extra. Heaven...
In case you're wondering what the hell this is, let me enlighten you. It's a Christmas tree made entirely of snowshoes, it's in the poshest department store in Toronto, and it's awesome.
All right, technically I should have used this photo for a Totally Crap Outfit of the Week post, but it makes me laugh so much - I just had to keep it with the rest of the Toronto photos. Look at him - he's all: "Ooooh yeah, fedora, big scarf, fur coat, I am one pimptastic bad-ass mofo, that's right. I'm so bad." And then he goes and slings a Jamaica backpack on top of it all like a total doofus. Heeheeheeheehee!
All right, so that's the end of the Tales from Toronto for another year, I hope you liked them (although I am still totally kicking myself for not getting a photo of the chandelier made entirely of hockey sticks - if any of you TO readers know the restaurant it's in and you send me a photo, I'll publish on here and give you full credit!). We now return you to your regular Paris programming...
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Okay, I am little behind with this due to my recent zombiefication (see previous post for details), but I did promise you the totally crap outfits that didn't make it into the blog last year, so here you are, with love from Miss K. In no particular order:
You know, I admire the commitment to the crazy, I really do. Especially the parasol, that's a nice touch. But a) would it have been too much effort to run a brush through your hair? and b) did I mention the craaaayyyyyyzeeeeee???
Okay, as you all know, I myself am genuine low-class swamp trash, but I promise you that even in the depths of poverty, when I was wearing hand-me-downs that had probably gone through about eighteen owners before they finally ended up with me, I still never wore anything this bad. Really, you're going to come to Paris and stand in front of the Louvre wearing this? You're giving trash a bad name, honey...
Okay, let me explain something to you, dearie. When you went into the tourist shop and bought that tea towel with the Eiffel Tower on it? Yeah, it's not actually meant to be worn as a dress. Just a little tip from me to you.
Somewhere in Bhutan, there must be a naked and very pissed-off monk wondering why someone stole his robes, and why this woman is wearing them through the streets of Paris. Dude, we're all wondering that...
Could you do me a great big favour? When I get to be over 70 (like this lady), if I attempt to leave the house dressed like this, could you please have me committed immediately? Thanks!
I took this on the Metro, and this is all I could get into the shot because she was right beside me, but really: leopard print shoes, swirly fuschia tights with a butterfly pattern, and an embroidered neon floral coat? Just thank me for not photographing the top half of the outfit. Really. Just thank me.
I know - you're looking at this, thinking you should maybe call the nice men with the butterfly nets to come and collect this lady? Look a little more closely, because it appears she's already wearing a butterfly net. Over a top that has a butterfly on it. A butterfly with...roots? Oooookay. Moving right along. And don't get me started on the hair, because if I look at this photo much longer, you might need to call the nice men with the butterfly nets to come and collect me.
You know, Miss K is half Scottish, and I like a bit of tartan from time to time. This? Is a lot of tartan. And generally speaking, if it looks like you needed a crowbar to wedge you into your outfit? Then maybe, just maybe, you should wear something else - something a little looser that doesn't involve any tartan. I would thank you, and I'm pretty sure the good people of Scotland would thank you as well...
Sometimes I do this crazy thing. Sometimes, before I leave the house, I look in a mirror to see whether what I'm wearing is the most unflattering outfit ever seen by the eyes of humankind. And if it is? Then I don't wear it. Gah! It's not rocket science, people...
Could I just.....oh, I don't know....make a teeny tiny suggestion here, sweetie? I mean, it's only a thought, no need for you to decide about it right away or anything, no pressure. But here's my idea (and again, just a crazy notion that came to me): that the next time you decide to cover yourself in glue and roll around on the floor of a thrift shop (which is clearly the thrift shop in Hell) and then go out in public wearing whatever rags stuck to you, I'm thinking you should just.... Not. Ever. Do. That. Again.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Let me tell you a little story about the zombiefication (it's my blog, I get to make up whatever words I want, so there) of Miss K. It all started on the 29th of December when I caught my red-eye flight from Toronto to Paris. Here's the thing: I can't sleep on planes. Ever. I am so wretchedly uncomfortable that it's impossible, no matter how tired I am - somehow it seems that my already-long legs grow an extra three inches, my already-bony knees expand to the size of watermelons, my already-broad shoulders increase to linebacker size, my already-long neck elongates so far that my skull dangles right off the back of the headrest, and I'm pretty sure I grow an extra arm from somewhere around my left shoulderblade. But one day, a friend of mine introduced me to sleeping pills and ahhhhh, sleep on a plane became possible (the first time it happened I was freaked: took off in Toronto, swallowed a pill and, like, five minutes later we were landing at Heathrow, it was like traveling through time!)
Anyway, all was going according to plan - got on the plane, ate my meal, washed my sleeping pill down with some red wine (yeah, I'm so rock'n'roll), put in my industrial-strength earplugs, put on my eye-mask and blanket, pretzeled all my extra limbs into the most comfortable position possible...and then the toddler in the row in front of me started to scream. And I mean the most bloodcurdling, earshattering scream ever in the history of the universe - my industrial-strength earplugs were no match for ol' Lungs McDecibelthroat. And he screamed all the way to Paris, I kid you not. And the reason I know this? Is because I was f*cking awake for the whole flight. Grrrrr doesn't even begin to cover it. But remember that sleeping pill I took? Well, the good people who invented Zopiclone were not messing around - the stuff works, especially when you combine it with fatigue and jetlag. So as soon as I got on the bus from the airport? Asleep. As soon as I walked from my stop to my apartment and got into my room? Asleep. Asleep for 14 hours, people!
But that worked well because it was New Year's Eve and I had a party to go to (which was fabulous and I had a great time and it totally took the bad mojo off the holiday for me, in case you were wondering), so I was absolutely fine to be awake until 6am and then to sleep off my monster hangover all day. But by this point, my poor body clock had no idea what timezone it was in, who the hell I am, or why it should cooperate with me in any way whatsoever. So I spent the last few nights tossing and turning (and cursing that toddler - if that's wrong and bad and mean, I'll just go ahead and add it to the very long list of things I'm already going to hell for) and not falling asleep until about 7am, which did not lead to productive days, I assure you. So last night I had to turn to those nice Zopiclone people again to force my body clock to get into the right timezone, and I finally got a decent night's sleep.
That's why you haven't heard from me for the past few days. I mean, I could have posted, but Zombie Miss K would have only written something like: oihgeo ihah daegfnq oen igei hfqek fnkavn dtler joarhe. So you really didn't miss much...