More from the deleted scenes warehouse...

Last week, in response to many emails I've received from fabulous readers wondering when they can read more about Mara's life, I decided to post a deleted scene. Initially, one of Mara's to-do items on her OM list (a personal pathway to perfection) is to learn to sew so that she can create fabulous one-of-a-kind outfits. Unfortunately, it seemed that Mara had enough to do, what with learning to cook and getting a promotion at work and throwing fabulous parties, that learning to sew would just be impossible. I mean, I've been learning to sew for about three years now, and still, I can't seem to make a straight seam. So instead, Mara got to just shop for more unique clothes, which means that the sewing scenes are now deleted scenes for you to enjoy!

If you didn't read the first deleted scene, you can read it here, so that you'll know what's happening. The following deleted scene picks up where the first one left off.

Happy long weekend!

***

I was running short on sewing time, so I called Mrs. Freudel to find out the lesson plan for my second class. She informed me that I’d be ironing my seams flat and serging the edges so they wouldn’t fray. I decided I’d be further ahead if I skipped the class and taught myself to sew. Surely the library had a Sewing for Dummies book. And I intended to find it.

It was while roaming the aisles of the old Yorkville library searching for the Sewing for Dummies book (seriously, what is up with kids using the lookup computers for IM? Isn’t there supposed to be a rule against that? And why weren’t the librarians enforcing it? Is the Dewey decimal system still in effect? And how are sewing books categorized when one doesn’t know the last name of the author of Sewing for Dummies?) that I discovered the video section – and more importantly yoga videos – and picked up Yoga Instant Calm. The back of the DVD cover promised me that the video would help me improve my asanas, honor my body and bring a sense of peace to all aspects of my life.

The girl on the cover was wearing all black and sitting in Salutation Seal pose, which seriously isn’t the most flattering position in real life because it’s like sitting cross-legged except if you’re not super thin and super flexible then your knees aren’t down on the ground and so you’re sort of awkward looking and your belly’s sort of hanging over the top of your yoga pants and even though you’re supposed to be focusing on your hands in prayer position at your chest, it’s much too distracting to see your toes in front of you and wonder when you’ll remember to take off the chipping polish on your toes because you only seem to remember during this pose or cobbler’s pose when your toes are right beneath your nose.

Anyway.

It couldn’t hurt to practice yoga at home – especially if it promised to help me make peace with those around me. Plus, it was fulfilling my multitasking requirement – I was getting items to help me with more than one item on my checklist, and by doing yoga at home, I could have a pot of ratatouille simmering on the stove, completing several domestic tasks at once without even living the house. Or I could do it before work, something I couldn’t do at Bikram due to the inability to wash my hair with the hideous tea tree oil shampoo.

After considering the integration of yoga videos into my schedule, I headed to the help desk to find what I really came for.

“We haven’t got a Sewing for Dummies in book form in the library, but I can order you a copy from one of the other branches,” the lovely nanny-type lady with blue-tinted glasses said to me. “Or,” she said, looking back at her computer screen, “we have it on tape. Would that do?”

I should’ve ordered the book and waited an extra day or two, but listening to Sewing for Dummies on tape sounded like a much better idea. After all, I’d need my hands to sew, and if I had to read through the book and then stop, do what it told me, stop, read the book, and so on, all day long, I’d never get the dresses made. But if I listened on tape, I could sew as I listened. It was a perfect solution.

Perfect, I thought as the librarian handed me Sewing for Dummies on tape.

Perfect, except for one small point, which didn’t dawn on me until I got home – I didn’t actually own a tape deck.

***


“That’s because tape decks went out of style along with Rick Springfield and Debbie Gibson,” Bradford explained bluntly. “So did my car, though, so if you really need a tape deck, you can come over here and listen to it in the Skivvy” he said, referring to his beloved purple Honda Civic.

I wasn’t sure that was going to work, but what other choice did I have. “Where can I plug in my sewing machine, though?”

“Do you have an extension cord?”

I walked over to the kitchen and pulled the extension cord that allowed the fridge to run, and unplugged it. “Yep.”

“Then you’re in business.”

And that’s how I came to sit in Bradford’s driveway, with my pink sewing machine set up on a TV table outside the passenger’s seat in his magenta Honda Civic.

Bradford was no help at all, since once again, he lacked in a typical gay flair for fashion. He touched the interfacing that I pulled out of the bag and made a face. “That’s sort of scratchy, isn’t it?”

I handed him Pumpernickel to take inside, and shut the door to the Civic. Then, I pushed Play and the tape started to whirr away. The beginning was quite simple, explaining the parts of the sewing machine. First we wind the bobbin.

No problem – I did that in Mrs. Freudel’s class and my bobbin was already threaded with silver thread, ready for the dresses. Next, I was supposed to put my bobbin into place in the machine, then thread my needle. Over and down and up and down and through the needle. A cinch. Then, catch the bobbin thread. Catch. The. Bobbin. Thread. Why wasn’t it catching? Was it still down there? I was afraid to actually open the bobbin compartment because, truth be told, I didn’t actually remember how to thread it through. There was something about a waterfall and it going down the river and the bank on the left. Or right. I wasn’t sure, and I was pretty sure if I opened up the bobbin compartment it would be worse than a can of worms scenario. So I kept rolling the side dial toward me hoping the thread in the needle would eventually catch the bobbin.

Finally, it did, and I exhaled heavily and then felt proud of myself for keeping my yoga composure. I had just worked through a difficult pose – call it “waterfall besides a bank” and pushed through.

The instructor, however was already talking about stitches and moving the dial to 10. 10? I only had pictures of stitches on my machine and orange dots to match up. Was 10 the stitch on the end? Or were there 100 numbers on most machines and 10 was near the beginning? Or 50? Now the instructor was telling me to put two pieces of fabric with the right sides together and pin them in place. Then to place the material 2 cm over from the foot, backstitch and then start sewing. I didn’t even have the right stitch figured out. And 2 cm? I only had fractions that I was pretty sure were inches. What was I going to do. I looked for the STOP button on the tape deck but there was only an EJECT. I pressed the button and the tape popped out. I pushed it back in and hit REWIND. Then PLAY. This was going to be a long afternoon.


Around five o’clock Bradford opened the door to the driver’s side of the car and sat down beside me, holding Pumpernickel in his arms. He nodded, surveying the scene. The patterns were spread out across the car, but there were so many lines and pieces to cut I had abandoned them long ago. After all, I knew what a dress looked like and since the patterns required zippers, something I had no idea how to make, and something I wasn’t sure where if at all the instructions would be on the Dummies tape, I decided to boycott them and instead, make tank dresses. Thankfully I had been wise purchasing cotton with a bit of spandex, so surely the girls could wiggle their way into the dresses. I had one dress pretty much complete – okay except for the unhemmed collar and bottom – I held it up for Bradford to see. He nodded with approval.

“So these are armless girls?”

I looked at the armpits. I’d sewn them shut.


I wanted to cry, but Bradford pulled me out of the car before I could work up the tears.


“How about a cocktail?”

Fur, fashion and Book #13

A few days ago a friend and art director at another magazine emailed to ask if I had a fur coat. This, just days after my father asked, after cleaning out the basement, if I wanted any of my mother or grandmother's fur coats that were stored down there. While I didn't want to part with them -- I loved these coats growing up, and I still do -- I'm not sure I have the moxie to parade past the PETAs in one.


But today, the fur coats are going to be famous! They're heading off to be in a photo shoot. And just like any model, it's not about the model, it's about what the model's modelling. In this case, the fur coats will be the "coat rack" for belts. For a belt ad.


The strangest thing about this is that the coats are being paid a sum that is the same (or in some cases more) than some magazines pay a model for a photo shoot.


How sad is it that a 25-year-old coat is making more money than a 25-year-old model?


In other modelling news, I just finished reading Fashioning Reality by Ben Barry.



Ben started his own modelling agency in the basement of his mother's home in Ottawa when he was 14. Fourteen! Do you remember what you were doing at 14? He wanted to help one of his friends, who didn't have a typical model body but who was gorgeous nonetheless find work. He started with a few models, getting them mall shows and department store ads, and now, he has offices in London, New York and Toronto. His roster includes all women: short, tall, fat, skinny, young, old. His girls were used in the Dove Campaign for Real Beauty -- the one that changed the way we all think about beauty, models and advertising. The campaign that was just feted at Cannes Lions International Advertising Festival.

Now, he's at the Judge Business School at Cambridge University on an Ogilvy Foundation Research Grant, doing a study on whether consumers want to see a new style of model -- one that is more than tall, thin and flawless. The average model is 5'11" and 117 pounds. The average woman is 5'4" and 140 pounds. I think as consumers, we know which type of model we'd rather see in ad campaigns. And Ben is the driving force behind making this change.


I picked up his book last weekend and finished it in two sittings. It's part business, part fashion, part memoir, and all fun. While I loved the insider info on the fashion, modelling and agency world (Ben mentored under Elmer Olsen), I found the entrepreneurial message captivating and one that anyone can relate to, either in their own job or if they've ever thought of starting their own business. Meanwhile, the story of how Ben got to where he is today was as good as any novel. I never knew what was going to happen when I turned the page. From winning the CIBC Student Entrepreneur of the Year award while at U of T where he attended on a four-year National Millennium Scholarship to getting his girls into the final show at Toronto Fashion Week (sample sizes be damned!), Fashioning Reality is an inspiring, motivating, feel-good read.


I met Ben briefly at BookExpo and found him to be sweet, funny and charming. If he agrees, I'm going to get him to stop by here to answer all our questions about fashion, modelling, real beauty and what it's like to be running an international business, going to school, and still not being old enough to rent a car.


Can't wait? To read an exerpt of Fashioning Reality, go here.

The Mayor and his bling

On Saturday, I went to St. Catharines, my hometown, to do a reading & signing at the Chapters at the *NEW* Fairview Mall. I say "new" because that's what it's now called, and I was excited to see why, since growing up, the Fairview Mall was the secondary mall, to the larger, more impressive Pen Centre. The Fairview Mall was always one of those malls that isn't quite a mall, that has a Zellers and a food court and a lotto stand, but the rest of the shops sort of come and go, and are the type you can never really remember the name of.

Since we were early getting to Chapters, my stepmom and I decided to walk around the mall for a few minutes, which is all it took. The lotto booth was still there, though it was doubling as a funeral and gravestone flowers express pickup, which struck me as sort of odd. I mean, people die suddenly, and that's awful, but is anyone ever in such a rush to get the flowers on time? But what do I know? All I know is that they also removed the movie theatres -- which makes no sense to me! Don't malls usually ADD super amazing theatres to help attract people to the mall? Those theatres were home to many crushes on boys over the years. Boys who, now that I think about it, never liked me back. So maybe it's fine that they're gone.

My dad and stepmom did an amazing job of inviting everyone out for the signing, and then hosting a backyard reception afterward, which was so fun. In preparation, however, there was apparently some all-nighters being pulled by a certain male parent who shall remain nameless. Apparently he felt it necessary to finish reading a certain book that I wrote, perhaps so that when the neighbours said "Have you read the book?" He would be able to say no, without lying.

This is because he is a very honest person, who taught me you should not lie. Except when you're writing FICTION, people. FICTION! So anyway, he finished reading the book the night (or morning) before I arrived, and had this to say when I walked through the door:

He: "Fiction, huh? Even the part about the Apple IIC?"
Okay, so maybe we did have an Apple IIC. And Print Shop. And orange paper.
Me: "But it's funny, right? Right?!" Besides, I wanted it to be authentic and how could I write about a Commodore 64 if we never had one, for the exact reasons that Mara never had one (that you can only play games on them and not do your homework). For the record, I think my father was secretly flattered that his computer had a cameo appearance in the book.

During this debate, I asked my stepmom what she thought. She shrugged and smiled, remaining neutral -- or so I thought -- until I returned from golfing the next morning with my dad to find her on the couch reading my book. Aha! I'd caught her. She hadn't gotten involved in what was slightly modified reality because she hadn't read the book. But she was well-rested for the signing, and it was a good thing, because guess who arrived... the mayor!

I think the mayor is super. Okay, okay, so I'm not actually important enough that he came just because I was an author who'd written a book. He may be related to me. Sort of. He's the Hubs' second cousin-in-law thrice removed. Still, it was super sweet that he and his wife and family came, considering Dan Akroyd was having a wine event and there was a potato stomp and a million other events that day that he also had to get to.

But the best part was that he brought his bling!

He: "I see you've got some bling." (pointing to my faux fat pearls). "How about I put on my bling and we get a picture together?"
Me: "Alrighty!"

Here we are.

Then we sat down and talked about how they're going to make a cat commute boat from Toronto to St. Catharines so that Mr. Baz can zip across the lake to the country whenever he wants to, unaccompanied by me, and he doesn't have to whine about how hot he is in the car when we're stuck in traffic for three hours.

Okay not really. That was fiction.

PS: Thanks also to the Cupcake Shoppe for the fabulous cupcakes and to everyone that came out!

And now, I'm off to tell only the truth for the rest of the day.

Book #12: Baby Proof

I've always admired Emily Giffin. She's smart, accomplished (she worked as a lawyer before becoming an author), a mom of two and the bestselling author of three novels, all of which were launched within the last five years. And she's only 35.

However, since I've just recovered from five summers-full of weddings, I never read her first two novels -- Something Borrowed and Something Blue -- since I needed a bit of a wedding break.

Then Baby Proof came out. I'd seen it everywhere for months, but never picked it up because I figured it was the third in the series and since I hadn't read the first two, I'd be lost reading the third.

On Friday I stopped into Book City on my way home from work. I was looking for a new book and I picked up Baby Proof, just to see what it was all about. I should've realized that from the title it was about not having a baby, but for some reason, I just figured that the couple in books 1 &2 were now having a baby. I was totally wrong.

The premise: Claudia is thirtysomething. She has always known she doesn't want kids and in most of her relationships, it's been the dealbreaker. Then she meets Ben, and he feels the same way. Now, they've been happily married and child-free for years. Until Ben decides he does want kids after all.

I couldn't put this book down. I read it on the subway, walking down the street and even waiting on the street to meet a friend. Unlike most chicklit, where you know exactly where the story's going and just hope for some laughs along the way, I never had any idea what would happen on the next page. Emily's writing is fresh, witty and smart and the story is funny, sad and totally engaging. And now I can't wait to read her first two books.

The mysterious mystery of why I haven't seen the new Nancy Drew movie yet...

I love Nancy Drew. I blogged about my love for her. I collect the books. I couldn't contain my excitement when I heard about the movie. I counted down the days until it came out. And then....nothing.

Everyone keeps emailing me asking why I haven't blogged about the movie.

I haven't seen it.

But I have good reason. It was a crazy week.

First, I planted a white oleander on the balcony.


Pretty? Check.

Loves heat? Check.

Loves sun? Check.

Doesn't need a lot of watering? Check.


It seemed too good to be true. Like perhaps I wouldn't kill this tree with my lack of gardening skills.


It was too good to be true. I might not kill the tree, but that's because the tree was going to kill us all. I mean, how could I not remember that white oleander is lethal?


I read the book. I saw the movie. It was actually my love of both that convinced me to buy the oleander tree -- and to get white, instead of pink or lavender. But why did the garden experts, when recommending the tree for my black thumb, fail to tell me it was poisonous, or ask if I had pets?


So anyway, we'd had the tree for less than 24 hours when one of my friends made a joke about slipping the leaves into tea, which is when I went into full freak-out mode about Mr. Baz, who at that very moment could've been fixing himself an oleander salad while I was at work. First I Googled it to make sure it really WAS poisonous to pets. It was. I left work immediately and went to the vet. They looked at me like I was crazy.


Me: Is it really lethal?
Vet: It's really lethal.
Me: Like, Mr. Baz will DIE? If he eats one leaf?
Vet: He'll DIE if he LICKS one leaf and you don't get him here in time.

I raced home praying that Mr. Baz was smart enough to not eat the tree. Thankfully, he was sleeping under the bed. And breathing. Still, I felt like the worst "kimmy" (kitty mommy) ever.

So until I could get the oleander tree unplanted and back to the garden centre, Mr. Baz had to stay under house arrest, with me on 24 hour watch to make sure he didn't try to fling himself at the tree (a very real possibility given how he'd been stalking the leaves that were blowing in the wind before I knew the tree was a murderer).


By Saturday I got the tree back to the garden centre, where they didn't act at all concerned that my cat almost DIED, but they did give me my money back so that I could buy a non-poisonous Snowball tree instead.
Then, just as life was returning to normal, I threw my keys down the garbage chute. Who does this? Me. I blame it on my lack of both attention span and detail. I'm just so easily distracted. I don't mean to get myself into these situations, but as much as I try, I can't seem to help it. So then I, like Mr. Baz, had to spend the next two days under house arrest, until I could get all the keys - to our home, mailbox (because you never know who might try to steal your mail!), office and car changed. Now, we've got new shiny locks on everything, and I'm on 24 hour watch of my keys to make sure that they don't try to go flinging themselves down chutes, sewers, elevator shafts or off balconies.

I'm really hoping that this weekend will be un-eventful and that I can get down to more serious matters, like seeing the Nancy Drew movie.

Have you seen it yet? What did you think?

Mara learns to sew...

I've been getting lots of emails lately wondering what happens to Mara and whether I'm writing a sequel, and while I can't give anything away just yet, I've got something I hope will tide you over for a bit...

a deleted scene!

If you've read the book, then you'll know who everyone is. If you haven't, this won't spoil anything since I decided that Mara was overwhelmed enough and didn't need to learn how to sew, too. All you need to know is that Marjorie is her boss, the plastic surgeon she works for at the cosmetic surgery clinic.

Enjoy!

After lunch while amusing myself with a package of Twizzlers, Marjorie re-emerged with a crisis. Her maid’s triplets were appearing in the Kmart Talent Competition and Marjorie had promised she would take care of their costumes in an attempt to stop her maid from leaving her for a more lucrative job in Rosedale.
Realizing this was my chance to show Marjorie I was worthy of promotion, I shot my hand in the air and waved it around dramatically. “I’ll do it!”

“Great,” Marjorie said, handing me the info. “The budget is $1,000. Just call Dina’s Dressmaking in Little Italy and give her the measurements.”

I nearly choked on my Twizzler. One thousand dollars? Surely I could learn to sew, then pocket the money instead. I mean, how hard could sewing really be?

***

If I had any sewing smarts, I would’ve taken the $1,000, and gone straight to the Dina’s Dressmaking Shoppe on the College and got the cute little lady – Dina – to make the dresses, just like Marjorie told me to do. Wiped my hands and patted myself on the back for taking care of business. But instead, as I was picking out fabric at Queen Street Fabrics with all good intentions to then take the fabric to Dina, I saw a sign for Mrs. Freudal’s Frugal Sewing Classes and I knew I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. Not only could I check off #8 on my OM List: Design and sew my own clothes (or rather, clothes for other people, which was far more charitable anyway) – but I could make a quick $1,000 (minus the fabric costs) and impress Marjorie. I took down Mrs. Freudal’s phone number to sign up for lessons, bought enough fabric – three color variations on the same patterned cotton with a touch of spandex – for three pint-sized dresses and left the store.

***

Miss Freudel told me to bring my sewing machine to her home in the Annex on Saturday morning. I didn’t have a sewing machine but I was sure I didn’t need one. After all, women in the olden days didn’t have machines and they sewed all their clothes. They didn’t have H&M to rely on for cheap essentials. They had to sew everything and make it last for years, not just a season. Surely if they could do it, so could I.

Miss Freudel had other ideas.

Miss Freudel lived in an old Victorian house that looked like it hadn’t seen paint since well before Debbie Travis got her own line of colors. A grey-haired woman answered the door and stared blankly at me.

“Miss Freudel?”

“I’m her daughter, Lucille,” the woman said. If this woman was a daughter, who was teaching the class? Lucille pointed toward the dim staircase straight ahead, which was lit by a single bulb with a dangling chain to turn it off and on. I expected the entranceway to be exquisitely decorated with gorgeous fabric used wherever possible, but it was just as disheveled as the exterior. She didn’t follow me down, but shut the door behind me. The whir of sewing machines made my descent feel like I was entering a mine. At the base of the stairs the room opened up into a full-on sweat shop. There were more than 20 tables set up with a sewing machine on each and a woman behind each machine. Lucille was right – she really was the daughter. And her mother was a cross between Miss Hannigan in Annie and Harriet Oleson in Little House. She stood dauntingly at the back of the room with a yard stick. She looked up at me. “Where’s your machine?” She barked from across the room.

“I don’t have one,” I answered meekly, knowing there was no way she could hear me over the machines. “I’d like to sew by hand,” I said louder. I clutched my bag of interfacing and multicolored cotton for support.

“Out.” She thrust the yard stick at me and then followed her point, edging closer to me. “You must buy machine or I can’t teach you to sew.”

“Couldn’t I borrow one of these?”

“You can use one of my machines for today only. Then you buy machine.”
I smiled. I wouldn’t need to buy a machine – I’d just sew all three dresses today, and be done. One thousand dollars minus twenty-five for the class and fifty for the fabric. Easy peasy.

I sat down at a boring brown machine at the back of the room and then got out my fabric. “So, I need to make these Lycra costumes, and I’d like to use interfacing,” I told Mrs. Freudal. There was no reason why I shouldn’t at least recover my eBay costs in this venture.

“First you’re going to sew these scraps of fabric together,” she told me and handed me a pile of green cotton. “One of each type of stitch on your machine.”

“But I don’t know the stitches. And I really need to make three dresses. Quickly.”

“You cannot make an apple pie until you learn which apples are best for baking. Start with a straight stitch. Set your dial to 10. Go.”

I didn’t even know how to thread the machine. I was doomed.


Stay tuned for more deleted scenes to come!

Monday Movie Montage

Okay, it's not really a montage...since they're not sliced together. And they're not movies... but it IS Monday & these three clips are really good, each in their own way.

First, we have the object of my affection, Adam Noah Levine, and Maroon 5 during soundcheck at the MMVA's...



Next up is "one-person party" Avril Lavigne. Seriously, people, this is who we chose as our favourite Canadian artist?. Where are her manners?




Finally, we have Johnny Depp, being a dream interviewe...




Enjoy!