Day 89: Make a Photobook.

Posted on May 28, 2012 by LaLa

What time is it?  If you answered deal time, you win!  …Um, win what, you might ask?  How about bragging rights that your intuitive powers and deductive reasoning skills are more commendable than Homer’s, followed by a hearty virtual pat on the back from me?  Yep, you really are that lucky!

Okay, getting back to Miser Mondays, today’s most excellent value was a voucher to create a custom 20-page photobook, courtesy of Shutterfly (I paid $10 plus shipping and taxes, retail value $30).  Does Shutterfly sound familiar?  It should, because it recently gained some notoriety by acquiring Kodak Gallery’s on-line business.

If you had an account at Kodak Gallery, you may want to have a quick peak in there to ensure that you have backed up any projects you had, and/or complete them pronto, because although your photos will be automatically migrated to Shutterfly on July 2nd, your projects won’t be.  Deep breaths – that still gives you about four weeks to get your orders in – it’s all good!

Now, my colleagues in Cork, Ireland had put together a lovely photobook for me prior to my final departure, which I thoroughly enjoy browsing through from time to time, that not only brings back all kinds of fond memories of the people there, but that also tends to make me oddly thirsty.  So, I’ve resorted to keeping it in the kitchen, closer to the wine glasses.  Everyone seems happier with this arrangement, particularly the faces smiling up at me from the book, as they raise their pint glasses with a hearty ‘Slainte!’ – or, at least, so whisper the echoes of voices in my head.

Since my return, I had been meaning to collate my own rendition of Irish memories, that would include pictures of the countryside and other pubs that I frequented over the two or so years that I spent outside the office walls.  Twenty pages sounded like that would be just about the optimal amount before my shiny object syndrome would cause me to drift onto something else.

The process to create the book seemed straightforward enough, and the user interface at Shutterfly appeared to be fairly indestructible (that is not meant as a challenge, by the way – merely an observation, in tribute to my computer hardware ‘opportunities’ over the years).  The step that did take me what felt like forever to complete was narrowing down which photographs I would want to see in the album over and over again.

Of course, the photos were not already grouped into one neat little folder, carefully organized and labelled.  Heck, they weren’t even on the same computer or memory stick.  Who has that kind of time, I wanna know?!!?  And would they like to volunteer to get my life better organized?  Because, I’ll be perfectly honest, I could use the help, although the pay would be in wine and cheese.  But, from what I understand, there are plenty of companies that offer similar roles for even less pay, by calling it ‘an internship’…  So yeah, maybe I should post an ad for an intern.  Or maybe the applicant can write the job posting for me in lieu of submitting a resume, as a testament to their attention to detail and what tasks they might be willing to perform?  I think I’m really onto something here!

The 25% of Cork summer day 2011 immortalized.

But I digress… Back to the photobook.  Creating the project was straightforward, and it even let me put pictures on the front and back covers.  I think there were opportunities to add stylistic embellishments  throughout it as well, but after the first couple of steps, it really seemed more than good enough to me, and so hopefully, I will love it just the way it is when it arrives on my doorstep a week or so from now.  Isn’t that freaking amazing, by the way?  The fact that we can turn on a machine, push a combination of buttons, and cause a parcel to arrive a short time later with our very own, completely customized hard-cover book?  I, for one, still find that un-freaking-believable!

In completely unrelated news, here is a picture of what my brother ordered for himself on his belated birthday lunch with me at Prohibition Gastrohouse (originally launched as the Booze Emporium, but apparently, they had trouble getting their liquor license with that name, go figure).

The artery-clogging plate consisted of the daily special steak sandwich with cheese, served with a side of Redneck Poutine (I believe it had hunks of lamb piled on top of homemade tater tots smothered in cheese and duck fat gravy)…  There are no words.  Much to my amazement, he managed to finish every morsel on his plate, and survived his afternoon shift with neither a coronary nor a nap, but, not so surprisingly, he did not feel the need to eat dinner that night.  Or breakfast the next morning, for that matter.  Still, Homer J. Simpson would be proud, if not a tad jealous.

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Day 88: Pedestrian Sundays in Kensington Market.

Posted on May 27, 2012 by LaLa

I’ve got the whole world in my…chair?

Ah, the auspicious day eighty-eight has finally arrived.  How fitting that it took me into Kensington Market for Pedestrian Sundays, just a stone’s throw away from the superstitious mecca that is Chinatown.  If you are new to the area, then let me introduce you to quite possibly the quirkiest neighbourhood in all of Toronto.

Kensington Market is a long-time favourite amongst tourists and locals alike.  It’s not trying to be too hip, or funky.  It just is – and we’re so okay with that.  The first time I was introduced to the ‘hood was on a middle school field trip.  At the time, it was much more shabby than chic, which, for a thirteen year old, was like following Alice down the rabbit hole.  So many, many shiny objects that were surprisingly affordable, and on a meagre allowance – paradise found!

Since then, the area has become somewhat gentrified (you may remember my definition of this word from a previous post), while it has managed to maintain its artsy charm.  It is in this incarnation that, for the past nine years and for just a handful of Sundays every summer, the entire vicinity is transformed into a virtual block party, with street vendors, buskers and food stalls augmenting the already jubilant environment.  What luck to finally be in town to enjoy such a magical day!

The little guy’s name is Krazy. You can call him Kray for short.

I started at its north end, and meandered my way through the adjoining streets.  Right off the bat, I came across some of the more interesting and larger artistic displays on offer, including:  the guy who usually tries to balance stones at The Beach using random pieces of brick, perhaps to mix it up; a giant spray-painting of an alien on the side of the Electric Theatre building, with a live air brushing demo out front; and a car that is losing the battle of the weeds growing on its colourful hood.  Yep, Kensington’s still as wacky as ever, and I love it!

    

Beyond that, I stopped for my mandatory cheese empanada at Jumbo Empanadas.  I mean, you build up quite an appetite aimlessly wandering through all the neighbourhood’s hot spots, like Blue Banana Market (which is a destination unto itself), and watching the street performers, like the mountie on stilts, the people giving out free hugs, and in this heat – what’s a girl to do?  Plus, it always comes with a little cup of their perfect salsa, and their thirst-quenching guava juice kept me smiling long after the queso was but a vague, delicious taste sensation in my mouth…  Ah, the memories!

Of course, there were still the usual gorgeous offerings of fruit and veggies on hand, across from Cheese Magic and around the corner from Global Cheese, which, by the way, is how I tend to give directions, because everybody knows where they sell happiness.

I finished up the day by catching the 3:30 pm showing of the documentary “Last Call at the Oasis” at the Bloor Street Hot Docs Cinema.  Erin Brockovich is back once again to save the world, valiantly trying to knock some sense into the masses about the fresh water crisis we are already in, unbeknownst to many.

And if you happen to live anywhere near the Hoover Dam in the US, like in, oh, I dunno, Las Vegas, this film should be required viewing.  Although, after you see it, you may start to think about relocating somewhere else, far away, and certainly within the next four years.  Trust me on this one – it’s going to get ugly, and fast.  You’ve been warned…

Ah well.  Back in the land of cheese-filled empanada bliss, the next two dates for Pedestrian Sundays in Kensington Market are July 29th and September 30th, so mark your calendars, and save me a front row seat for all the crazy!

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Day 87: Doors Open Toronto.

Posted on May 26, 2012 by LaLa

Leave it to the French to be the first to grant free admission to all kinds of interesting buildings one day a year, starting way back in 1984.  This eternally popular event evolved to include the rest of the EU, becoming European Heritage Days in 1991.  Toronto hopped on that bandwagon with Doors Open Toronto (DOTO) in 2000, and, not to be outdone, the province launched Doors Open Ontario shortly thereafter in 2002.  Many other cities across North America have since followed suit.

I brake for patios.

Despite having been based in Toronto for nearly two decades, and being somewhat of a  fan of architecture, I have somehow managed to miss this event every spring.  The couple of times that I did happen to be in town, either the weather wasn’t conducive to lining up outside, or else it was downright spectacular, in which case there was patio-liciousing to be done, and let’s face it, no matter how pretty the building, there’s really no contest when it comes to tasty morsels and bevies.

This year, I decided to forego the pints and chips, well, at least for a few hours, and made a short list of the 135 architecturally, historically, culturally, and/or socially significant buildings that I would be curious to see from the inside.  It was a surprisingly substantial roster.  So I did what any reasonably lazy gal would do, and picked a few of the ones that were on my main streetcar routes, and convinced seasoned DOTO goer LeLa to join me for the enlightening experience.

First up was Old City Hall.  Nestled between Nathan Philips Square that fronts the ‘new’ Toronto City Hall on one side, and with the Eaton Centre on the other side, I have passed by this building like a gazillion times, without ever really paying it any attention.  I figured it just housed some oppressive offices for city bureaucrats.  Wrong!  A very kind officer assisting with the event informed us that this 1899 structure is now where Justices of the Peace interview all the troubled souls who were up to no good the evening prior (aka the drunk tank brigade).

The courtroom that was in session on that particular day was smartly cordoned off from the part that was open to the public, so that your average citizen could plunk themselves down high on the bench and get their picture snapped throwing the book at their buddy.  Good times!  All the high jinx aside, it is undeniably a gorgeous building.  I am fascinated with the stair risers that contain intricate patterns of leaves made out of wrought iron.  The fancy ceilings and stained-glass windows are only outdone by the elaborate mosaic floors.  Not too shabby!

Ya, I suppose it looks like me…

Next on the itinerary was a mere stroll down Queen Street to Osgoode Hall, circa 1832.  It is the namesake of York University’s law school, and was opened by the Law Society of Upper Canada, who christened it after the first Chief Justice of the province.  The common Torontonian knows it better as the swank building with the breathtakingly beautiful grounds that are often used for taking wedding photos.  In fact, there is a wedding party doing just that when we arrive.

By far, the most stunning part of the interior is the two story atrium, which is currently housing a sculpture of what appears to be a woman hoisting a child up in her arms, although it could be a modern day interpretation of The Lion King holding up Simba…  Hard to say.

I also squeezed in a visit to the Canadian Turkish Islamic Heritage Association, aka the Pape Mosque, who got my vote for the nicest tour of the weekend, as their numerous, friendly volunteers offered us complimentary tea and delicious, melt in your mouth baklava while we watched a short, yet informative, 4-minute video presentation on Islam, and the Blue Mosque in Istanbul.

My last stop for this year’s DOTO event was the still under construction Regent Park Arts and Cultural Centre, which is poised to open in the revitalized neighbourhood this September.  I mean, what would a Saturday be without some element of danger?

It was fun to put on the large rubber boots and hard hat to meet up with the various Artscape folks and future tenants who were volunteering to excitedly tell us how it was progressing.  After all, safety first.  Then we can discuss ballet, drumming, theatre and lattes.

Note to self: wear socks and closed-toe shoes next year.

This first foray into Doors Open Toronto really whet my appetite for learning more about what this fantastic city has on offer.  So while I would have loved to take a ride down the giant slide inside the Corus Entertainment building on Corus Quay, and visited the Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library, not to mention the renowned R.C. Harris Water Treatment Plant, I suppose I have to save something for next year.  Only 364 more sleeps to go…

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Day 86: Try to Take a Pole Dance Class.

Posted on May 25, 2012 by LaLa

People on TV look better this way.

Now, you may be wondering, why the lengthy title?  Why not just ‘try to pole dance’?  Well, like many of my misadventures, this one began with a deal that I purchased with a couple of neighbourhood friends last summer.  Who knew that I would end up breaking my ankle a mere 7 days later?  Sometimes, life just doesn’t quite unfold the way you think it will.  And that’s precisely where you find its charm.

Since the vouchers were good for a year, it gave us plenty of time to embrace the idea of wrapping ourselves high up around a pole, and then squeezing our thighs together with all our might, in a desperate attempt to keep ourselves from falling on our heads.  All of a sudden, Suzanne Somers’ Thighmaster didn’t seem so silly.

In fact, I was a bit surprised at just how many of my friends were keen to try this form of ‘sensual exercise’ as it came up in conversation.  I mean, it did look like excellent value on cyber-paper:  a 1-hour class on ‘The Exotic Art of Pole Dance’, plus a 1-hour life/love reading session, all accompanied with complimentary hors d’oeuvres for a mere $49 (retail value $230).  But there was no denying the facts:  I was becoming a puma in what was revealing itself to be a pack of slightly intimidating cougars.  This class was destined to be unforgettably hilarious, and at the same time, more than a wee bit scary.  Gentlemen, you’ve been warned.

Eventually, my ankle recuperated well enough that it was time to unleash our inner divas.  The schedules were consulted, phone calls were made, and the evening was booked, albeit somewhat arbitrarily.  You see, the deal had evolved slightly over the past ten months, in that the tarot card readers were long gone, the instructor was new, but no worries, the class would merely be extending by an hour or two to make up for it.  This should have been my first clue that something was amiss.

But that thought quickly faded as it suddenly dawned on me:  sweet jayzus, this was actually going to happen!  Then, just as swiftly, one of my flirty cohorts injured her back, and the other one, her hip while running.  Apparently, this whole getting un-younger business is downright bad for our stripperella selves.  No worries, though, I found two substitute vixens eager to take their places.  It was on.

The not-so-RAH Centre.

The next major hint that all was not exactly as it should be arose when I left the studio a couple of messages to confirm the class start time (you know, details) and to see if there might be room for more of my hellcats to attend the class with us; however, they failed to call me back.  While I did find this a teensy bit suspicious, I just shrugged if off, and thought to myself that it’s hard to find good help these days.

So this evening, after a warm-up glass of liquid courage at home, we arrived in front of the RAH Centre in our finest sexy workout gear and requisite high heels only to find this message taped to the door: “Closed until further notice.  Sorry for the inconvenience.”  WTF?!!?  Surely, you jest.

All dressed up with no pole to climb!

So we did what any Sex-less in the City girls would do in this situation, after doggedly trying all the doors and windows, which raised at least one eyebrow from a nearby neighbour, and dragged our dumbfounded diva selves across the street for a drink at the ‘Groove Bar and Grill‘.  Clearly, we needed to debrief and dispel some seriously pent-up feline energy.

Kudos to our waiter, who managed to hold his own, and even concocted a few delicious cocktails for us to help mark the occasion.  He informed us that the studio had been closed like that for about a week and a half, as far as he could tell.

His empathy did not go unrewarded, as we ordered a second, and possibly even third round.  I mean, we weren’t supposed to be meeting anyone until at least 8:30 pm, at the earliest.  It just seemed like the best possible use of our newly freed-up schedule.

So, where do we go from here?  Good question.  There is no doubt that this class will happen sometime this year, just, in all likelihood, at a different venue.  As for the vouchers, I will be contacting the deal site, as I smell a refund in my near future.  At least, that’s what the crystal ball whispered to me from the billiards table.  It’s all good!

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Day 85: Cardio Gravity Strength.

Posted on May 24, 2012 by LaLa

Oh, the horrors I have witnessed today, in three minute increments.  I inadvertently signed up for a workout at energyXchange that literally left me dumbfounded.  Cheating was not an option.  This one had no shortcuts – believe me, I looked.  The class was called Cardio Gravity Strength, and it was loosely based upon all the recent sessions that I had been sampling, only with no rest for the weary.

There were two instructors, one for each half.  It all started in the ‘training room’ where I, along with half a dozen other quasi-willing participants, were subjected to a bunch of seemingly innocuous exercises that were reasonably familiar, which lulled us into a false sense of security, believing that the entire workout just might be doable.  Wrong!

Countdown to freedom!

We spent three minutes of personal hell executing each of the following activities while being strongly ‘encouraged’ by the enforcer with the stopwatch:  bicycling, skipping, rowing, squatting with a kettle bell, running on a treadmill, climbing stairs, passing a ‘Swiss’ ball between our hands and feet while lying on our backs, and pulling ourselves up on an inclined gravity bench.  Cue the nausea.

Did I mention that this gym believes in a barefoot policy?  So not only were we running for what felt like our lives, but we were doing so without the luxury of cushy insoles, which is really one of the few benefits of going to a gym that a girl can appreciate: the comfy footwear.  I mean, the fact that the exercises were each only a few minutes in length led us to believe that, much like a spy during the cold war, we could withstand any kind of torture for that brief of a period.

How many more reps in captivity?

So, as we were relishing in our short-lived victory of merely surviving the first half, like lambs to the slaughter, we were herded into the larger workout room, where we faced a new enemy:  the gravity machine.  Each of us was instructed on how to adjust the incline and various attachments of the apparatus for every exercise that we performed on it, whose effort was compounded by our extreme perspiration at this point, which kept us struggling just to stay on the bench, let alone try a sliding plank on it.

Let’s not get Physical and say we did, ‘kay?

In fact, the complexity of the machine proved to be a nice distraction, as did the mirrors, which confirmed just how un-Olivia Newton-John circa Physical album we appeared.  We battled our way through a series of leg presses, planks, sit ups, leg lifts and arm pulls using our own body weight against us.  When it was all over, we helped to disassemble the machines so that the evidence could be rolled away out of sight, obviously in case any random inspections of this voluntary Guantanamo Bay were held by the Human Rights Commission.

I managed to extract myself from the premises under my own force, with my muscles screaming at me all the way home in disbelief for what I had just made them endure.  Yep, this one is going to leave a mark, no two ways about it.  Hindsight being 20/20, I reminded myself that I did choose to go there under my own volition, with the primary purpose of getting my butt kicked, and, I have to say, mission accomplished.  Surprisingly, I didn’t hate it.  But maybe that’s just the Stockholm Syndrome talking.

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