More Tales from Revision Land

Procrastination is my friend. No seriously. We're BFFs.

I'm back in Revision Land, this time doing a line edit and making some minor (and hopefully final!) changes on LOVE STRUCK (which is now officially available for pre-order!).

Note: You can tell it's a minor revision by the number of Post-its. When I'm in writing or first-revision mode, there are more than 30 Post-its in several colours. Now, there are only 7! Yippee.

Still, I don't have a lot of time to do my revisions. I'm on a strict deadline. Which means I should be spending every free minute working on my book.

But I'm not.

Unfortunately, I chose this past week to have my website redesigned. The company I hired promised me that he would work quickly -- I tend to have a bit of a problem when I decide I want to do something (cut my hair, get a manicure, the list goes on and on), I want to do it right now. Not in five weeks. I'm so impatient. The company said it would be no problem.

So now, the real problem is that the guy doing my site wasn't kidding. He's in Holland, which means every morning when I wake up, I've got a new change to my site that I need to approve before noon. I'm very excited, but it means I'm choosing the right colours for my new website rather than words for my book. Yikes.

The good thing about being in Revision Land is that The Hubs gets me dinner so that I don't wander into the kitchen, get distracted and end up watching TV for hours. And Hubs dinners are the best. Today we had our friends over for brunch, so dinner was leftover almond croissants and pain au chocolat from Epi Breads with homemade jams from the farmers' market on King Street West. Maybe that's why I like being in Revision Land for so many days on end...

10 Ways to Justify a Shopping Splurge...

You know my love of the list, and so, this week I figured out how to incorporate the list into my Sweetspot blog post...

A Tale of Two Cheesecakes

My dad's birthday is only a few days after Father's Day. Which means what's normally a hard task (what to get the guy who has it all?) is even harder. Or that's my excuse. So this year, the Hubs and I decided we'd cook up a feast for my dad for Father's Day. Okay, okay, it's kind of sort of a totally selfish gift, because it meant a) we got to BBQ and b) go in the pool and hot tub at my dad's house. Still, we had to actually cook the meal.

Anyway, as it turned out, it rained all day on Father's Day, so we ended up just staying inside and drinking. Or rather, my stepmom and I did, while the Hubs and my dad manned the BBQ with beers in hand.

A few days before the BBQ/gift, the Hubs' parents told us they'd be in town for Father's Day too. So we decided, if 1 BBQ for 1 Dad = Good Idea, then 2 BBQs for 2 Dads = Even Better Idea!

We decided we'd go to my Dad's on Saturday, then drive back to the city on Sunday and host BBQ #2 at our place.

"We'll just get double of everything," The Hubs said. Which in theory sounds like a good idea, and really isn't much more work.

Except, who wants to eat the same meal two nights in a row? Not me, says the girl who really hates leftovers. So instead, I got a brilliant idea that I would do everything similar, but different.

I agreed we could have steaks on both nights, but everything else I'd make different.

The vegetable was easy. I brought broccoli for BBQ 1 and asparagus for BBQ 2.

The dip was a bit harder. I made a roasted red pepper dip for BBQ 1, then remembered my inlaws don't like peppers, so made an artichoke dip for BBQ 2.

I served the dips with potato cheese bread at BBQ 1. Multigrain at BBQ 2.

Then came dessert: I decided on cheesecake. Except, I only have one amazing cheesecake recipe (even if it is out of season).

It's tried and true (read: I've made it enough times that finally I don't screw it up). But what to do for BBQ 2?

And so the hunt began. Although cheesecake #1 is apple cinnamon and amazing, my general rule off thumb is that for a dessert to be good it must contain 2 ingredients: chocolate and caramel.

Then I found this recipe for Turtle Cheesecake.

The only trouble was, I couldn't find the Kraft caramels. And that's when the trouble began. First I improvised with caramel dip. Then I swapped the regular crust for an Oreo crust (more chocolate = more yum!).

The first cheesecake tasted amazing. It's too bad that the caramel oozed out the middle of it, so it didn't exactly look pretty. I took that cheesecake to work.

Then I tried again. But I left the caramel on the stove while I went to look at my dad's plumbing situation (enter yawn here). It burned to the bottom of the pot.

Finally, I made my own caramel sauce and cheesecake #3 turned out perfectly. By which point I was sort of sick of cheesecake altogether.

But the Dads were happy. So I guess that's all that matters.

Goodbye, MJ

I really can't believe Michael Jackson is gone.

I can't say anything that's not being said on a million other websites today, so I'll just tell you what I know. The King of Pop was my first true love.

When I was seven, my entire room was plastered with MJ posters. I loved him. I played his Thriller album on my record player and memorized every word to every song.

That same year, MJ came through on the Victory Tour with the Jackson Five. Knowing mine and my sister's love for Michael, my dad stood in line for hours to get us tickets. Then, he drove us to Buffalo to the concert, and let us see the show alone (while he probably went to have beer and wings. Or something. I don't think I ever asked what he did that night).

Unfortunately, I didn't even know Michael Jackson had brothers. So whenever a Jackson Five song came on, I would turn to my older and wiser sister and ask what was going on and why MJ wasn't just singing "Thriller" and "Billie Jean" and "Beat it" over and over again. Clearly I though "Jackson 5" was just a tribute to his favourite number, or something.

Still, the concert may be my one of my favourites ever. Unlike some concerts I've gone to where I can't even remember details a year later, I still remember that show and can picture our seats and how MJ looked on stage in his white outfit.

I still have the program and the sparkly glove pin I got at the concert that night.

As years went on, my musical tastes changed and so did my crushes, but I still always loved MJ deep down, even when I was 17 he and he was no longer cool. I was totally into Britpop and a guy in a band with very discriminating musical tastes who I knew, if he knew I still loved MJ would probably dump me on the spot. But I didn't care. I secretly bought MJ's CDs and listened to them alone in my bedroom.

Eventually, the boyfriend discovered my secret, but by that time our relationship was over anyway.

And now I'm married to a man, who, last night when I came home and asked if he heard about MJ, said in all seriousness (although he never owned a single MJ album), "Yes. I'm going to wear a black glove to work tomorrow."

Goodbye, MJ.

Up Close and Personal (ized)

Today, over at Sweetspot, I'm talking about why I can't find a single item with my name on it.

The back story: When I was born, my parents named me Chantel (surprise, I know). But my dad, even though French, knew me too well even when I was only a day old, and could see that despite multiple attempts -- a stint of French immersion, a summer in Paris as an au pair, an exchange to Quebec during my summer vacation, and a diet of poutine, I would never speak French well. Thus, he anglocized my name with an "e", giving me an out when people said "why don't you speak French?" and also, making my name unique.

Which I love. But as a result, I have had only a handful of personalized items:

1. A mug from Quebec with my name spelled "Chantal".

2. A Minnie Mouse hat from DisneyWorld. But that doesn't count, since they'll write whatever name you tell them on it.

3. A mug from my coach my first year of baseball. Ditto on the not counting, because the coach handpainted all the names herself.

4. Return address labels. Tritto.

5. Personalized stationery. Quattro. Still, I love them.

So because I could never have anything with my name on it, I became obsessed with things that sort of have my name on them. Like an item I talk about today at Sweetspot.

PS: I know what you're thinking: Why am I coming here just so that you can send me over here?

I promise only to do it on Mondays. And to update more regularly here. Girl Guide's Honour.

Boot Camp Is Hard.

Yesterday I went to the YMCA, where I work out. I use the term "work out" loosely. Basically, when I'm not too lazy to get out of bed in time to get to a class before work, I go. But since most of the classes are at 6:30 and I usually end up getting there at 7, I'm forced to create my own "workout" -- which often is centred around what TV show is on the elliptical trainer. Note: There are very few good shows on at 7 am -- on BT, Today and GMA, the good guests come on in the 8-9 hour. And MuchMusic airs French Kiss at 7 am. I like crepes...

I also like frites...

And I am obsessed with escargot...

Ooh-la-la!

But I do not French videos. Non-non.

So anyway, yesterday morning, I decided to drag myself out of bed and go to Boot Camp. Because as painful as it is, I keep telling myself that if I actually went regularly, I'd probably be pretty fit.

When the class started, one of the instructors said to grab the heaviest weights we could handle. Determined to give the class my full effort, I chose the heaviest weights I could handle. I figured that if they were too heavy, I could just switch to lighter ones (like um, I usually do).

Then the instructor told us we were going outside! Hurrah! I thought happily. It was so nice out yesterday morning. I was super-glad I came to the class.

Then we got outside. Then the instructor told us we were going for a run.

With the weights.

In our hands.

I thought I was going to die.

And then, we had to do some crazy boxing move. With the weights. And then tricep lifts. With the weights. And then straight-arm lifts. With the weights.

While running.

And just when I was thinking that I might be able to keep going, if I just stop doing all the crazy arm moves and instead hold the weights at my sides -- or rest them on my love handles -- the instructor yelled out: "Get your arms up! Do you want saggy arms flapping in the wind?"

Not when he put it that way. No, I didn't. But I did sort of want to chuck one of my weights at him.

Bland foods can be the pitta...

Last week I went to the launch of Beauty 2.0, a must-read beauty bible, written by Kristen Ma, co-owner of Pure+Simple in Toronto. Want to know your dosha? Want to know what is a dosha? Want to read about how I failed to stick to my dosha?

I share it all over here!

Saving the World (in Sensible Shoes)

I have a friend named Nerissa. Actually, her name's Marissa, but we used to golf together in a ladies' league and the guy in the pro shop used to call us "Nerissa" and "Chanel", and now the names have stuck.

Marissa and I met at TV Guide when we both got engaged at the same time (is there anything better than bonding over tiaras and flowers?)

Now, Marissa and I are both authors. Marissa's first novel, Saving the World (in Sensible Shoes) is not only funny but also so smart, so it's almost a non-guilty pleasure, because you're learning something while laughing. I can't do the premise justice, so in Marissa's own words, here's what the book's about:

Rhiannon O’Shea, an eco-justice intern, doesn’t fit in anywhere: she’s not a vegan (despite what she’d have her eco-fascist boss believe); nor is she an upscale socialite (never mind the grandparents with the Park Avenue penthouse or the handsome oil heir suitor she’s not falling in love with). She’s also not a particularly good intern. Until she's sent to the arctic to save beluga whales from offshore drilling, and her whole world changes. This book is about choosing your own adventure in a world full of forked roads, escaping the daily grind and searching for enlightenment, figuring out what you believe in, then turfing it all to believe the unbelievable -- and finally, it’s about dressing for success and accessorizing for survival.

Doesn't it sound good? Don't you want to buy it right now? I know! Me too.

But we're all going to have to wait. Her agent is shopping the book to publishers, so hopefully the book will sell very soon! In the meantime, Marissa has started her blog, where she writes about writing, getting published, and trying to be as green as she can. And it's super funny, just like her.

Shark attack!

Don't worry. It wasn't me. (Not surprisingly, when you live near an unswimable lake, not an ocean...). Still...

I'm obsessed with sharks. And the Hubs is convinced we're going to get eaten by them.


If we have kids, it's going to make for some interesting bedtime stories. The other night we went to a wine tasting from South Africa, to prep for our vacation to South Africa later this year. A woman at our table was telling us how it's the best place to do shark dives (in a cage, however). You TOTALLY cannot go into the water by yourself, with just a wetsuit, unless you are crazy or want to get eaten.

But the Hubs was like "No one's going in a cage."

I was like "I'm TOTALLY going in a cage!"

The Hubs looked at me like I just admitted to liking sardines. Seriously, who likes sardines? Not me.

I get the risk. You could do everything you're supposed to do, but the shark could still eat you.

But if you go skydiving, the shoot could not open, and the ground would break you.

If you go ziplining, the zipline could break, and a tree could break you. So is it really all that different?

On the way home, I was thinking to myself how I still have a few months and can totally convince The Hubs that it's going to be fine for me to go in the cage.

Then we got home and as were both on our laptops, and I saw the main story on my home page: Shark-infested beaches of the world.

Of course, I gasped, then quickly closed the screen. Too late.

Unfortunately, The Hubs had the same home page.

He: "I saw it."

Me: "I'm sure South Africa isn't even on the list."

He: "It's Number 1."

Me: "Oh."

He: "You're not going."

Me: "But why?"

He: "Because I like you. I would like to keep you."

Hmph. How can I argue with that?

5 Things You Need To Work

As you probably know, I got myself a new job a few weeks ago, and this week I started my new blog over at Sweetspot.

I had to come up with an idea about what to blog about.

Since the whole mandate of Sweetspot is to talk about things we love (how hard is my job?!), we decided that my blog -- The Cherry on Top -- would cover all the pretty little things that make your outfit, hair, home, life or events that much better.

Today I'm talking about those little things that make your desk pretty (and keep you inspired to keep working)! Because seriously, don't you get totally distracted when there's ugly crap nearby?

More reasons to have (many) editors...

Since Love Struck is set in New York and I don't usually frequent Wall Street when I'm in the city, I asked my friend who lives there for the name of a good restaurant on Wall Street that bankers would go to for lunch.

He wrote back. "Does it actually have to be on Wall Street? Or do you mean that they "work on Wall Street", the way I do?"

Did you know that people who "work on Wall Street" don't actually "work" on "Wall Street"? My friend works in Times Square. Even though he works on Wall Street.

I'd make a TV reference for comparison, but there isn't one. When I say "I watch the Bachelorette", I mean it. I really do.

Why everyone needs an editor...

After finishing the latest revision of Love Struck, I asked The Hubs if he would read it over. He's very good at catching things that I just make up, but which, in reality, make no sense. In Stuck in Downward Dog, he was my go-to guy when it came to Mara's ex-boyfriend's business-y career. He knew why he was leaving and where he was going. And I trust him that when it comes to numbers and suits, it all makes sense.

The Hubs said he'd read the manuscript if I took it to Kinko's and got it double-side photocopied and bound so that the pages wouldn't go flying when we took a trip out west on the weekend. So I did, then he read the book on the plane while I drank red wine and pretended to read a book and discovered a new love for Lionel Richie on XM radio ("Hello! Is it me you're looking for?") But I couldn't focus. As soon as he pulled the top off his pen and circled a word on the page, I just had to know what he was doing.

I looked over as he circled the words "MBA" and "Cambridge". In my mind, I thought it sounded lovely that one of the characters got an MBA from Cambridge. I pictured him eating scones with clotted cream and looking very smart in an argyle v-neck over a shirt and tie.

Me: "Why did you circle that? Can't he get an MBA at Cambridge?" (I had no clue. That's why it's called fiction. I just make it up).

The Hubs: "He can. But I doubt anyone will hire him."

Yikes. I hope no one reading this has an MBA from Cambridge and a job they love. Anyway, the character in question is no longer a Cambridge student. I hope he enjoyed the ride while it lasted.

Mr. Mouse, the Goldfish

As I may have mentioned before, the Hubs is obsessed with getting Mr. Baz a mouse to play with on the patio.

For obvious reasons I am against this.

I am not, however, against a goldfish.

So the other day we bought Mr. Baz his very first goldfish. And then, because we were worried he was going to scare the goldfish to death, we bought it a friend, so they could um, be scared together.

To appease the Hubs, they are named Mr. and Mrs. Mouse.

On day 1, Mr. Baz drank the water from their bowl.

On day 2, he gave Mr. and Mrs. Mouse a passing glance on his way to eat the freshly planted grass and flowers instead.*

* Note: While buying our flowers for the patio, we also bought Mr. Baz two catnip plants. We even went to a second store to find the perfect flower pot in which to plant the catnip. And what does he think? He is not at all interested in the catnip. What kind of cat is not interested in catnip? A crazy one, that's what. He's like "I'm not into things that put "cat" in the title. Give me a scrap of steak, a crumble of parmiagiano, the tail from your dynamite sushi roll. But catnip? Fuhgeddaboudit.

On day 3, he ignored Mr. and Mrs. Mouse completely, but meowed incessantly when I pulled out the fish food (which are dehdrated worms or something equally disgusting).

And now I'm worried Mr. and Mrs. Mouse are going to die of boredom. They're like "Where's the big black cat? There's nothing to look at around here. This place sucks." It's a good thing we bought a pair, so they can amuse each other. So far they seem to be playing tag, though I can never tell which one's "it".

How to MC a wedding

Last weekend I was an MC.


Not that kind of MC.

The kind at a wedding. The Master of Ceremonies. Or, as I like to call it, The Mistress of Ceremonies.

Luckily, my initials are MC, so it wasn't at all confusing when people would call out "Hey MC!". I'm lying. Not a single person hollered that. But at the end of the night, some drunk guy was like "Hey, there goes the DJ!" to me as I walked by him on the dance floor. I didn't have the heart to tell him that the DJ was the one sitting behind the table, mixing music on his iPods. I guess he was confused by the lack of turntable action.

Anyway, I always think of MCs as guys. And funny. I'm neither, but then I remembered that my sister and sister-in-law were actually my co-MCs at my wedding so clearly I didn't think our MC had to be a guy. Or even just one guy. When I was preparing, I thought about what they did, to try to get some inspiration. At our destination wedding, though, their biggest task was to ensure no fat, bald guys in Speedos tried to sneak their way into the ceremony area or get caught in the background of any photos. So perhaps not really relevant, though it was the May 24 weekend, on a golf course, with a winery onsite and an open bar, so I didn't underestimate the reality that some people might decide to pound back a 2-4 and strip down.

Luckily, no one did, although I like to think they were going to, until I told them I'd kick their butt during my speech. So really I stopped them in their tracks. Go me. Either way, no embarrassing moments for the bride, and the most embarassing part was only when I explained how to get the bride and groom to suck face (aka the kissing game). My father appeared slightly mortified by my choice of words. Oh, Dad...

College Humor

Last night I was at an event where I was playing wing-girl to my friend who liked one of two guys. She talked to the one she liked, and the other guy (who was actually the one who liked her), got stuck talking to me, the married girl. Nothing sucks more than getting stuck talking to a girl who's happily hitched, while your friend hits on the girl you like. At least it was open bar.

Anyway, he sold ads for CollegeHumor.com! So even if he had a crappy time, I got to the bottom of this mystery! Do you know this website?

I discovered the show on MuchMusic a while ago, and am now addicted to it. It's hilarious, but I just assumed that the premise (a bunch of kids started the website to make beer money in college, and then turned the gig into a full-time business) was fake. Then I found the website, and it looked far too complex to be a fake site for the show. Then, I met the guy last night who confirmed it's for real! They did start this website and then it turned into a job and now that's where they all work, and now they get to star in the scripted TV show.

Just call me Nancy Drew.

Or maybe you already knew all that.

If you didn't, here's a clip to get you addicted too.

The evolution of the Trekkie

This weekend, I boldly went where I have never gone before.

To a Star Trek movie.

I spent all of Saturday doing the final* edits on Love Struck...

*Note: When I say "final" I mean, final until this week when I read it over one last time. And then send it to my editor and agent. And then they read it. And then I go to the next round of edits. But that is not for many, MANY weeks, and that is what I'm focusing on.

....and getting so excited every time I heard another clap of thunder because it meant I wasn't missing out on a sunny Saturday, stuck inside with my computer. I'm so selfish, I know.

To make me feel better, The Hubs did work too, because there's nothing like working while someone else is eating ice cream sandwiches and dancing in the living room.

Then, when I finished, he said I could choose whichever movie I wanted to see.**

**I'm pretty sure when he said "whichever" he did not really mean 17 Again, although he did tell me where it was playing. But I'm not that terrible.

Instead, I chose Star Trek. I really never imagined the day that I would see a Star Trek movie a) in a theatre and b) without complaining.

But that's what happens when J.J. Abrams makes a film with hot guys. It may be one of the best movies I've seen in a long time. I know you think I'm kidding right now, but I'm not. If J.J. had been around 30 years ago, maybe we'd all be Trekkies.

Now that the movie is over, I'm a little bit obsessed with the Star Trek the Movie website,
where you can upload a picture of yourself and turn into a Romulan or a Captain or an Officer, or my personal favourite, a Vulcan. You can also record yourself saying any phrase you like in Vulcan voice! I would show you but everytime I try to embed myself saying Live Long and Eat Cupcakes in my fab bowl cut, it crashes my browser. Oh well. Go beam yourself into the website so you can be a Vulcan too.

Toe crack

Yesterday I walked by this mannequin and noticed her flip-flops. Then I noticed she has no toe crack. No cleavage. She's like a web-toed frog. Is it me, or does it sort of freak you out to stare at her feet for too long?

Swine flu: Conspiracy theory?

I'm not really worried about the swine flu, which is weird, because I keep thinking I'm going to get a blood clot to my brain and have an aneurism and die on the spot, so it's not as though I'm not irrational or think I'm invincible. Maybe it's that when SARS hit, I really did not change my habits at all; I took the subway, went to class, went to work, went to grimy bars and kissed lots of boys. On the lips.

Ooh. How naughty.

Did Purell even exist back then? I don't think so. I don't remember using it. And I survived.

Side note: Do you know what Purell's slogan is? I'll tell you.

"Imagine a Touchable World."

Awesome. Sounds like the name of a George Michael song.

At my friend's work downtown, the company sent out a statement saying you can't have more than five people in a meeting at once. Which means that that they had to conference call people in another board room, just to have a regular meeting. It's kind of ridiculous, but at the same time, it's kind of scary.

To keep myself sane, I tell myself piggy stories. Like when I was in grade school I had a teacher who wore pig clothes, pig accessories, and carried pig accoutrements (like her lunch bag, umbrella, etc). It's a weird sight on its own, but see a woman in all pink piggy items every day in a school that is otherwise a mass of green plaid and it's even stranger. A lot of kids made fun of her. I'd like to say I didn't, but I'd by lying. Come on, pig paraphernalia? You'd have made fun too. That's what twelve-year-olds do. Then one day she told us that the reason she was so obsessed with pigs was because her heart stopped working and she got a pig valve put into her body. And so, a pig saved her life.

I felt like the biggest jerk ever for making fun.

I guess it's not that weird to wear pig clothes when you compare it to having part of a pig inside of your body. I wonder how she feels about pigs right now.

When I played baseball, one of the girls on my team had a pig as a pet. She'd bring him to all the games. He was black and had the shiniest coat ever and walked on a leash.

His name was Pigmalion.

No it wasn't. But that would be an awesome name for a pig, no?

My sister was set to go to Cabo last weekend. I emailed her in a panic to ask her if she was still going to go. She wrote back immediately to say that she was already in Mexico and it was a ghost town at the resort which meant she was living like royalty. (Royalty that's about to get piggy flu, I couldn't help but thinking). She said people were running for their lives to catch the last planes out of Mexico and that they were crazy, that it's the flu not a plague. She finished her email by telling me she thought it was a conspiracy by the US government to take our minds of the recession.

If that's true, I think it's working, though does that mean the people who have died are actors and are laughing. Ha ha ha, those crazy North Americans. They think we died from flu from a pig.

They made a movie about this sort of thought process in the 90s. It was called Wag the Dog, remember?

iheartintoronto - prettier than ever!

Several months ago I launched iheartintoronto.com -- a blog to talk about everything I loved but couldn't write about at my day job. Little did I know when I got a fabulous assistant, she would turn the site into this, which made its post-makeover debut yesterday!

Thanks so much to Jen, Suzanne and her guy Mo, we now have such a pretty site to talk about pretty things!

Let us know what you love, what you hate, and what you want to write about!

Cat Ladies, Bedtime Stories and Amadeus

We saw Mr. Baz on Friday night -- he did an amazing job! All three seconds that he was on the screen! But seriously, I was glad that he (and when I say "he" I really mean "we") weren't on the screen for too long because we (and when I say "we" I really mean "I") was sort of making jokes, and the film Cat Ladies was actually sort of sad. There were hilarious parts, but those were actually at the expense of the cat ladies. Not in a mean way, but the film obviously highlighted the stereotype of the "crazy cat lady" -- four of which were featured in the film.

One had three cats.

One had sixteen.

One had 123.

And the final one had too many to count. (The one with 123 actually counted them all.)

The film was incredible and I was so proud of my girl Christie Callan-Jones, the director. She did an amazing job.

There was a short film before Cat Ladies called Statistics, which showed the life of workers in a call centre in Norway. When I first graduated from university I took a government job, and spent my days on the phone helping people start up their small businesses. It was really just a glorified call centre as I spouted out memorized info while doing the daily crossword in the Metro. (I didn't even last my probation period before I went postal and quit). So I could totally relate. The film plays again this weekend - Saturday and Sunday and I highly recommend catching it with Cat Ladies. You won't be disappointed.

Then, to add a little low-brow content to my weekend I watched Bedtime Stories with Adam Sandler.

The film was super cute, but the best part was a scene with Adam Sandler in his truck, rockin out to Rock Me Amadeus. I can't find a clip, so you're getting the actual Falco vide. I forgot how awesome this song is.