Adventures of a Tofu Slut

I know everyone thinks that it's socks that are always magically disappearing, but I think it's really pants (aka trousers). Because I swear I am in a constant state of needing new pants, and I can't really think of any better explanation than that my apartment is a black hole of pantslessness*.

Anyway, thanks to an afternoon hanging out with starfishchick, I am now the proud owner of two pairs of purple pants. Is that overkill? Possibly. Still, purple pants! I'm so stylin', yo.

On a different note, anyone want to move in with me for six months? I provide excellent running commentary while watching TV, I have lots of CDs and DVDs with which to entertain you, and I've been known to cook actual meals. I even pay the bills on time. Plus, the aforementioned 10 Indian restaurants within 5 minutes of my apartment. Yum.

*Which would explain why summer is also known, around here, as the season of no pants.

They're soft and comfortable (at least the good ones are).

They can be scrunched up into a little ball and shoved into a bag, unlike coats.

They add instant colour to a monotonous outfit.

They're perfect for people like me who can never decide if they're too hot or too cold.

They don't have to be pulled over your head, so the chances of them getting caught on your glasses are pretty slim.

But most of all, when you've slept through your alarm and can't stop yawning, you can stretch them out and wrap them double across your front, and feel like you're under a blanket.

::takes nap::

My feet are killing me.

Today, because I needed a break from the sandals-that-are-good-but-not-totally-comfortable-to-walk-in-for-hours, I wore these very cute little black shoes with square toes and big chunky heels. I've worn them a couple of times before, both times with nylons, and I've been fine. Today, with bare feet, I had rubbed the skin at the back completely raw by the time I got to work, and then I had to lug four flats of boxes down to shipping (which, (a) if I'd remembered this was happening, I would have worn different shoes and clothes that weren't black and dust catching, and (b) ow, those damn boxes were heavy), all of which resulted in my feet looking like someone took a cheese grater to them. I've used up the last of my band-aid supply, but I'm pretty sure the 3 minute walk to the drugstore will be the death of me, and I'm not entirely sure I can even make it downstairs to get lunch, let alone do the errands I had intended to do after work.

Stupid shoes. Stupid me. Stupid job that won't let me wear bare feet every day.

Which brings me to why I hate the government. Or, actually, go back to the second sentence, the bit about needing a break from my sandals, my sadness about which has already been documented.

I needed a government publication. My choices were either go somewhere not particularly close by to buy it, or order it online, pay the $2 shipping, and have it sent right to my house. I went with the second, since the first would have probably meant skipping out on something so that I could go after work one day. I was being good, and not bailing on the gym! Tuesday, I get home, and there's a thingy stuck to the door of my apartment building, saying that Canpar had been by with a package for me, but no-one was home, so they couldn't deliver it. They'll try again tomorrow morning, they say, or I can tell them a safe place to put it, and they'll drop it off. Otherwise, it'll get sent back to the shipper.

So I have to say, what's wrong with using Canada Post? At least that way packages just go to the post office up the street, where they know me by name because I'm never home to get my mail and my mail box is too small to fit anything bigger than Entertainment Weekly. Instead, people use these stupid courier companies that mean I end up having to pick things up myself anyway, or go through convoluted contortions and extra money to get them sent to work instead of home.

Anyway, I called Canpar, and they said sure I can pick it up (which means basically I just paid $2 so that I could pick it up at the shipping company instead of at the GovDocs store - bite me), and the office is at Queen's Quay and Parliament, which, for once, is not in a different area code, and in fact is not that far from where I work.

Or so I thought. It looked like it was maybe a 1/2 hour walk. Of course, yesterday was probably the hottest day of the year so far, or at least the day most likely to kill you through smog inhalation, but I was determined - pop down there, pick up the package, head back to the subway, make it to dance class by 6. I had a good hour and fifteen, which seemed like plenty of time to me.

An hour later, walking on the wrong side of a seriously busy street with no lights and no crosswalk (and no sidewalks - hello, gravel), I started to question my wisdom. I found the place and nearly got restrained by the guards when I tried to walk in without checking in at the guard box (which I didn't see since it was blocked by the biggest truck I have ever encountered), but I did eventually get my package, and found my way back to somewhere that I could get a bus, by which point my feet were very sore, and I was completely covered in sweat. And so late for class that there was really no point in going.

Oh, and on the way I passed by one more Loblaw's...which also didn't have the elusive cereal. Of course.

People, I really should not have been let out of the house today. Why is there not someone guarding the door, checking me over and pronouncing me fit to be seen in public? My pants are falling apart (and are all wrong besides - I always forget how much these pants irritate me until I've been wearing them for a few hours), my brand-new tank top is...I don't know, too long? too big? too made for teenyboppers with no hips?, my shoes and my pant legs are fighting a constant battle for supremacy, and my cardigan is entirely the wrong colour.

And now I have to go work at the front desk, where people will actually see me. It's so wrong.

Today I am wearing silky nylons and funky patchwork heels with an ankle strap. Very snazzy. The rest of me is not quite as classy looking, but I'm trying. Casual Friday has no meaning in my life, although the dressiness is a rare enough occasion that everyone keeps asking if I have a date (yeah, right).

The downside is that I can't stop touching my legs. They're so silky smooth. I wonder if this is what they'd feel like if I, I don't know, shaved them or something. I probably shouldn't try it, if the perma-need to touch my own legs is a side effect.

Everybody needs to be really nice to me for the rest of the year, because I got some very cute (and silly), very on sale Christmas cards for next year, and I know you all want one (if you saw them, which you won't until December).

Also purchased: cute, extremely cheap bras, which probably won't last long, but which actually fit, unlike the rest of my bras.

Not purchased: lunch from the fancy pasta place, as it seems to have closed. Goodbye, green curry sauce.

"I Enjoy Being a Girl" is the lamest song ever written for a musical. You wanna argue?

The worst part is that it's been earworming me since Friday, when vestra and I went to see this fabulous one-man show called Real Live Girl at Buddies. Damien Atkins is really excellent - excellent enough that he could even make "I Enjoy Being a Girl" watchable. It's on until Sunday, so if you're in Toronto and looking for something to do, you should see it.

It was also a great start to the weekend, which, as well as the snowbound Sunday, also included a fabulous Xmas party at the home of sanity_clause and sarcasma. I had a great time, truly an event considering how much I generally hate parties.

It did bring to light a problem, though. Getting dressed to go out in the winter is way too difficult. It's very *very* hard to look cute and partyriffic when you have to worry about keeping every part of your body away from the freezing air. So, ok, you're going to a house party, which means you can basically strip once you get there (which is what I did - I just wore pants under the dress so that I wouldn't get frostbite or anything), but then you have the problem of shoes or no shoes in the house, which each require completely different outfits, because something that looks good with boots will look very funny with just socks, and tights feet are pretty fugly at all times.

Of course, if you're going somewhere public, there are different problems. If it's really winter, that means winter boots, and it's just not that classy to stop in the foyer of a restaurant and change your shoes, plus then what do you do with the slushy boots? And if it's declassé to change shoes, then it's even less classy to have too many layers of clothing to shed, particularly if it involves the bottom half - no one looks good while taking off leggings and snow pants.

Really, it's no wonder that it took us forever to get out of the house on Saturday. I don't normally pay this much attention to clothing (which those of you who see me regularly can attest to - I'm pretty much a spazz with no fashion sense), but parties somehow seem to require something extra. Even if that something extra has to be topped off with the enormous blue-green fleece and gortex remnant of my west coast life.

Last thing - we went to a cabaret show last night, which was fun, if a little uneven and quite obviously thrown together at the last minute. We knew some people that were singing in it, though, and they were excellent (and big goofy freaks at times, which I love). It prompted the realization that the boyfriends/husbands of all my friends are uniformly talented, funny and cute, and people that I enjoy hanging out with. Which is as it should be, because my friends are also all talented, funny and cute. It's great when the universe aligns itself correctly like that.

At some point this morning my frog ring fell off, and has now probably disappeared for good. I'm very sad - I've had the ring for 10 years (when I started my music degree, all the other oboe players had frog rings, so they took me to get one too) and it's something pretty special to me. I've lost it a couple of times, but always found it again, and the last time we moved it got all bent out of shape when I smushed my pinky between a wall and a box. This time, though, I can't imagine I'll see it again, because it disappeared at some point on the way to work, so on the streetcar or the subway.

Goodbye frogs, I'll miss you. Plus now my pinky looks disturbingly naked.

***

On the bright side, I got a very cute Christmas card from swedishfrogs yesterday. Mwa!

And I had a fabulous time going to LotR:FotR:EE with starfishchick last night, although it's kind of hard to watch it with a straight face anymore, when all I see is slashtasticness.

I think there's something in the air.

Last night at the gym there was

1. a woman who came out of the toilet stall without pulling up her pants. The underwear was up, but she didn't pull up her pants until after she left the stall (and didn't seem to think this was odd, either);

2. a woman who had either recently peed her pants or was sweating in a somewhat...unusual place;

3. two girls who were technically taking an aerobics class, but were really just poking and teasing each other, and chasing each other around the studio, which resulted in one of them actually pulling the pants right off the other one (they were those bizarre pants that snap right up the side), so she was left standing there in her underwear with her pants around her ankles.

I was a little scared. Also I compulsively checked my pants for the rest of my time at the gym to make sure that they were still where they were supposed to be.

Is it possible to own too much cord? I looked at my clothes this morning and realized that
I own 2 cord skirts and 3 pairs of cord pants (which may not sound like a lot, but considering I probably only own 7 pairs of pants all together...). I used to hate cord. I wonder what happened.

***

I saw Underworld last weekend, did I mention that? Dude, Kate Beckinsale is hot. But not hot enough to make up for the hideous atrocity that was the acting of Shane Brolly as Kraven. I sure hope this was nepotism at work, because otherwise the casting director was on crack.

***

Speaking of hot, when did Harrison from Popular grow up so nice? And for once a pretend TV boyfriend actor is actually my age (rather than way older or way younger), which makes me feel like a bit less of a dork. The show's not that bad either, although soon Gilmore Girls will start (in the same time slot here) so there likely won't be much more watching of Jake 2.0.

***

And speaking of Gilmore Girls (wow, my random thoughts are oddly not so random today)...I can't believe it's not starting here until next week. Well, okay, I can believe it, because the same thing happened last year (we were a week behind), but it's taking all my strength to not read comments and recaps.

***

So vestra and I made a deal that we would reward ourselves with non-food related things when we reached pre-determined weight loss goals. Also, there will be glitter and coloured felts and a chart to make things more interesting. Anyway, point is, I only get to buy non-essentials when I reach a goal, which of course just makes me want to run out and buy things RIGHT NOW. I'm really not usually this much of a consumer, but take something away and I wantitneedit. I wonder if I can convince myself that DVDs are a necessity?

***

I'm being inundated with calls from both my union and the Canadian Opera Company, so I can't answer the phone at home anymore. Not that I ever did before - I'm a firm believer in the joy of screening - but now I have an actual reason. Because, see, I know what I'm in for if the COC actually catches me on the phone. Last year, after I bought my first 18to29 ticket, someone called to try to convince me to subscribe for the rest of the season. And he would not give up. I tried to tell him that I really wasn't interested in the crowd pleasers that they had programmed, I lied and said I was away for 3 months in the spring, I flat out said no, but still he kept talking. Never again, I tell you. On the bright side, they're calling because I just got nice cheap tickets to Peter Grimes by Benjamin Britten. Apparently it's full of death, "nieces" and laudanum addicts. Should be excellent. I went to university with the understudy for the lead role, so I'm hoping for some sort of non-fatal illness to attack the lead that night.

***

The latest Savage Love column is all letters from women who are upset that their boyfriends use porn. Personally, I don't really understand, but it would seem that women who are okay with porn are a rare species, so I'm thinking the easiest way for me to find a boyfriend would be to take out an ad:

Wanted: One boyfriend. Will let you use porn. Will encourage you to use porn. Will use porn with you.

I anticipate many responses to my ad.