Obligatory returned-from-vacation post

I'm back...obviously.

So how was England? you ask. Well, without going into too much detail and posting all kinds of pictures with explanations, England was beautiful. Very green. And everything sounds so much more civilized over there, even when people are telling you to piss off. (No, no one told me to piss off. Everyone was remarkably polite and kind and helpful. Maybe because of my odd and charming Canadian accent, eh?)

We stayed in Lymington, a coastal town on the Solent in the southwest region near the Isle of Wight. It's a quaint area with cobblestone streets, good shopping (they even had a La Senza), and a wharf. Lotsa boats.

Lymington's located in an area called the New Forest, famous for its protected animals. Wild horses and cows roam around freely, grazing by the side of the road without fear of cars or people. It's been like this since 1099. I shit you not.

We visited various towns, including Beaulieu, home of the third lord of Montagu whose family estate hosted a secret agent "finishing school" during WWII. (I smell a Harlequin novel...)
Once again, I shit you not.

Oh, and they had a motor museum and a James Bond exhibit there, too. Also, the Lord Montagu has gardens, a mansion, and a monorail on his grounds, open to the public for an admission fee. I want a monorail on my property....is there a Lady Montagu?

We stayed at Elmer's Court, which had spectacular grounds with pheasants and rabbits and ducks roaming around everywhere. It was exactly like what you'd read about in a Jane Austen novel, only with resort facilities. We stayed in a time-share cottage. It was very comfy.

Yes, I did eat fish and chips.
Yes, I had a Cornish pasty.
No, I did not have bangers and mash. But I did have liver and bacon.
Yes, the beer was warm.
Yes, we went to London on a whirlwind one-day tour. It was insane.

We even had our own little Hobbity adventure, trekking through the swampland on a casual "walk"--(okay, so John carried me through the muck most of the time since I was wearing sandals)--that ended up with us crawling through thorny brambles and onto private land so we could get back to the main road. The theme from Fellowship of the Ring kept running through my head the whole time...but it was so much fun.

My favourite things about the whole trip:


It was a bakery delivery truck in London. The sign reads "DRIVERS DO NOT HAVE ACCESS TO THE MUFFINS". Apparently, muffin theft is a big problem over there.

That's England in a few words. I hope I'm not expected to expand on that any further. In any case, you can see all the pictures, with captions, on my Facebook account.

Off to merry ol' England!

Eh, guvna', I'm off to seek adventure in jolly ol' England and per'aps 'ave a spot o' tea with the Queen!

Pip pip, cheerio, and other silly English colloquialisms, eh?

Be back Saturday July 21st.

End of an era....

I've finally given in and upgraded my eight-year-old cell phone handset.

Say goodbye to the brain-frying, two-tone Radiation King, and say hello to my sexy new Nokia slide phone, who I've lovingly named (*whispers*) Slider.

To protect the glass screen, I got a case the Telus guy recommended, since it was on sale for $10.
Sadly, it was made by Hummer.
I never thought I'd buy a Hummer...it was a moment of weakness....the shame of it all.....

I amz dead ppl?

On my way to work today, I looked up from my morning haze and suddenly realized that, waiting for the bus at York Mills Station, I was completely and utterly alone. Not a soul in site. The buses were emptied of passengers, the drivers nowhere in sight.

No one was waiting in line with me for the 122 Lesmill bus, a bus that is normally packed with workday communters. The driver eventually came, and for the entire trip I was the only passenger. As I sat there, staring around, wondering what parallel universe I'd woken up in, I started running through the possible scenarios in my head:

"I'm dead" theory: Just as Nicole Kidman in The Others realizes she is not alone in the house, so too did I conjecture the possibility that I was actually surrounded by hundreds of people I couldn't see, and that I was the ghost among them.

"I'm out of phase" theory: the space/time continuum has somehow been disrupted, and I've been caught in some anomaly that doesn't let me see other people. Like Beverly Crusher in that one episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation.

Abduction theory: Everyone else in the world has been abducted by aliens. Or Jesus. Whichever plot you subscribe to.

"I smell funny" theory: People are giving me a really, really wide berth today because I ate sushi last night. It's so bad, CP24 is running an on-going Vicki-radar scan to track where I am and where I'm headed so commuters can plan an alternate route. That would explain the helicopter that's been following me around...

Broken watch/sun theory: Did I wake up at the wrong time? Is today a holiday? Or a Sunday? Did the earth move? Has the sun shifted since I was asleep? Is it actually bright as day at 4:00 a.m. in the morning? You never know what those trick aliens will do while you're sleeping.

Subway delays theory: the most mundane but likely culprit. Even so, WTF? Empty bus platforms?

I've got a theory for you....

News today from Yahoo reports a Chilean lake has vanished.

They think geology did it.

But we all know it was much more sinister than that....

Thirsty megalomaniac evil terrorists, anyone?

Post 300!

THIS.
IS.
300!!

And what better way to celebrate my 300th post than by announcing that one of my fanfiction stories, The Game, previously thought to be some quaint and eccentric (excuse to be anti-social) nerd habit, has been nominated for a dotmoon.net 2006 UFO honorable mention award. Here's the badge to prove it:

Okay, so said like that, it doesn't mean much. Mind you, my story was the only Avatar: The Last Airbender fanfic nominated this year, and I've never even heard of this Web site until today. So it was pretty cool to see the e-mail in my inbox this morning from some out-of-the-blue Web site saying "Hey, someone read your stuff and thinks you're cool."

Anyhow, I'm milking this for all it's worth. When I write my author profile for my Harlequin novel, you know that's going on there....

Meanwhile, yes, I have in fact finished my Harlequin novel, tentatively titled All in the Details. A host of lovely people I've met through fanfiction.net have kindly agreed to beta-read for me.

A teaser, if you will:

Lilah Mann had to grow up fast when her father abandoned their family while she was only 17. She had to drop out of high school and work to keep a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. She'll do anything for her mother and sisters--it's what drives her to make sure her new event planning business succeeds. And she'll do anything to make it work, up to and including engaging in some questionable business practices with her newest client, the too-sexy-for-words Kent Sullivan.

But what the senior publisher of Sullivan Media doesn't know is that the spunky, elfin-haired "event engineer" is the same woman he met at a Halloween costume ball only a week ago...minus a stunning red dress and a blond wig. Can Cinderella keep her slippers under wraps, or will Lilah's Prince Charming insist on a fairytale ending?

...Admittedly, that does sound cheesetacular, but if you've read any Harlequin novels (and I insist that you do!) then you should be glad there are no nymphs, vampires, or time-travelling Highlanders in my book.

Wish me luck: I'm already starting a second book....

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooo....!!!

Battlestar Galactica to end after season 4.

*SOB*

That's all I have to say. Now pardon me while I curl up in a corner and cry.
*SOB.*

English

Interrobang: a punctuation mark that incorporates a question mark and an exclamation point--it actually looks like the two are superimposed on top of each other. It's rarely used, but is sometimes seen in British usage.

Scrutator: one who investigates.

Testate: Having made a legally valid will.

Since we're talking about the English language, I'll just take this opportunity to mention that I'm off to England for a week starting Friday. I'll be with John's family, staying in a town called Lymington, so before you call flood me with comments about high terror alerts, let me just mention that Lymington is about 60 miles away, in the southwest part of the country near the Isle of Wight.

It must be love when...

1. She pukes all over you and you don't fling her across the room.

2. You decide you really can spend hours upon hours making stupid faces at her, just to see that smile.

3. You stop referring to her as "the parasite."

4. Changing diapers becomes a skill in your eyes.

5. She has ceased tasting like turkey gravy and more like guilt.

6. Most of your conversations with her sound like this:

You: Ooja-booja-boojah! Goo-goo-goo? Heeeeee!
Her: *quizzical look*
You: Ahm-yahm-yahm eat my hand! You're a strong girl! Yes you are! You're going to eat my hand!
Her: *gnaws on your knuckle*
You: Squeeeee! Who's a funny girl? Who's making funny faces? Hmm? HMM? Goo goo goo goo....
Her: *fart*
You: YAY! Who's a gassy girl? WHO'S A GASSY GIRL??? YOU'RE a gassy girl!! Yes you are!
Her: *grin*

Happy three-monthday, Bowie!

DAEMON!

I am so psyched for the Golden Compass movie...
See a little preview teaser clip...it looks so....boooootiful....
Go find out your daemon now!

First draft picks!

OH THANK GOD, I've finally done the damn thing.

For those of you I haven't told, I've been working on writing my own Harlequin novel. I started writing it in November and I just now finished the first draft. (That thar' be a picture of me typing with my nose, since my hands fell off typing.) Yay me!

It's been six months of weekends and after-work hours in front of my computer trying to make two fickle characters hook up in a slightly conceivable and romantic fashion. Now, a number of you are probably saying, "Aw, but that's easy, all the stories follow a formula..." And while that may be true, I might add that nuclear physics also follows formulas, but that doesn't make it easy to do.

Was it hard? OH GOD, yes. Mostly because characters take on a life of their own, no matter what you try to make them do or how you make them want to act. And since my characters are often brooding, angsty, angry, bitter people with intimacy issues...well, just try to make someone like that fall in love.

Next steps are for me to edit this sucker down to under 65,000 words, the maximum word count for the series I'm pitching it to. And then I'll have to go through the arduous task of editing some more. And more. And more....

I've actually put most of this book through two to three edits already, but it's going to need a lot more spit and polish before I send it out to my beta readers (and for those of you who though fanfiction was just a hobby and would never come in handy, SUCK IT! I have beta readers!)

In the meantime, I'm looking for a pseudonym! A nom de plume, a pen name, an alias, a moniker. Why? Because Vicki So is too short on a book spine, and Harlequin readers don't go for overly-foreign names unless the story is a cultural one.

Got ideas? Come up with a list! Keep in mind, I want something borderline klassy (with a K) but not porntacular. And preferably female. If you can, keep a V in there somewhere.

Whoever comes up with the best name will win a free Harlequin book from my personal library (because I get em for free)! And if my book gets sold (crossing fingers), I'll sign a copy fer ya...it'll be worth millions of pesos one day!

Man pr0n

That's right: Harlequin makes smut for men, too.

While editing books from Don Pendleton's Mack Bolan universe, I realized just how subversively porntacular these stories are. Not in the hot and heavy engorged member kind of way: most of the time, there's never any explicit sex scenes.

In fact, most of these stories deal with international crises that a quasi-official mercenary group from Stony Man farm is usually assigned to clean up. So where's the porn, you ask?

It's in the guns. Lots of them. Big ones, little ones, and everything in between.

That's right, every shootout becomes phallusfest. The heroes barge into a heated situation, stroking their triggers to spray bullets at their enemies. They grunt and cry and groan as bursts of light and sound and force explode all around them. The ensuing orgiastic shower of shrapnel and blood always ends with the triumphant heroes standing over their litterally dozens of vanquished foes who lie twitching (post-orgasm) in pools of their own bodily fluids, dying little and big deaths.

And how do the heroes react to the death they've brought upon these nameless souls?

With a smile, of course.

I know, the gun/knife/sword/weapon as a phallic symbol is pretty old news. But if ever you need to write an essay about it, and you don't want to ready Tom Clancy, Mack is your man.

BUY THESE BOOKS...

Or get them at the library...whatever you do, just get your dirty little hands on them!


The Twlight Lord by Beatrice Small.

This third in erotic fantasy series, The World of Hetar, deals with the kidnapping of a half-faerie woman by the Twilight Lord, a big ol' baddie with--count 'em--TWO wang doodles. His mission: to impregnate her with his spawn who will herald the end of all that is good, like sunshine and puppies.

I wish I had kept up a list of quotes from this books, but let me just say this: the word "rod" is used A LOT...as in "she's been well-rodded" or "his dominant rod pulsed hotly".

Other stunning word to add to your erotic vocabulary include pleasures, manroot, and my personal favourite, rosehole.

It's in trade paperback for $17. If you have that kind of disposable income, this is a great read to stock your bathroom with, right in between that old Archie Double Digest and that issue of Playboy from January 2005.








Of course, if time-travelling Highlanders who fight evil are more your thing, read:

Dark Seduction, by Brenda Joyce.

Part of the Masters of Time series, which follows the exploits of hunky, oversexed magical guys in kilts, this erotic adventure into the 1400's (or 1600's? I can't remember...but does it matter? Warrior men in kilts! SEX!!!), Dark Seduction made me alternately laugh and cry all weekend. Laugh for obvious reason, and cry because I had to edit it.

Mass market paperback for $8. A perfect companion to the Nymph King.

Goodbye, cruel world...

Don't do it, man!

You have so much to live for!

Think about your children...like Little Billy No-Ass! You worked so damn hard to get him that seatless pool chair!












And what about your gorgeous wife....?

Wait a second! She's RIGHT BEHIND THE DOOR!

DON'T DO IT, MAN!!!


(Ahh..SkyMall makes me laugh....)

Hide your daughters

That a lot of Wangs....

*Snert*

I'm so immature.

Shoooooooooes!!!

I just bought the two pairs of ballet flats in the lower right hand corner over the weekend at the Payless Shoes BOGO sale, wondering all the while if I really needed more shoes.

So when I got home, I took all my shoes out and snapped this shot. There are 22 pairs of shoes there, for those of you trying to count. 24 if you count the running shoes I have stashed at work and my house slippers.

I've always considered my shoe fetish to be rather tame compared to others' I know, men included. I try to vary my styles but keep them consistently timeless and fashionable, as well as comfortable.

The question is, do I have enough shoes now? Am I woman enough?

The answer to both those questions is a resounding NO: not until I have handbags to match.

The Sky is Malling

On the way to and from New York, I had the great pleasure of reading and taking home a complimentary copy of SkyMall, the airline shopping catalogue that showcases anything from massage chairs to fashionable women's apparel. Because apparently, you may just have the urge to purchase crap while you're sitting in your meat crate.

If nothing else, the catalogue does provide hours of entertainment: you really have to wonder what paleontologists will think upon unearthing one of these.

Or this.

Or this.

Or this.

Or this.

You know, this may just become a regularly featured showcase of crap....

A Helluva Tooooown...

Haroah Nuoak! John and I spent a fabulous three nights, four days in the Big Apple. Despite the Nor'Easter that blew through (it's what they call a big-ass storm that closed down parts of the city) and the subsequent wet and wild weather that I now blame for the cough/cold I am suffering, we got to see all the sights we wanted, and didn't have any major setbacks.

Highlights: this is a never-ending city. It's like walking around downtown Toronto and never seeing the sky. You live in perpetual city twilight because of all the skyscrapers. But wow, what a sight all that concrete is. And the streets haven't been painted with homeless people, would you believe!

The food was good, though pretty expensive anywhere along Broadway. If you ever plan to go, eat locally in places like Chinatown and Little Italy: it gets expensive to eat at chain restaurants in the big touristy areas like Times Square.

Shopping: meh, since the exchange rate isn't so good and we were both loathe to bring home crap, the only thing we ended up buying was an umbrella to stave off the rain, and some cough drops. The customs lady didn't believe us. (It's okay, though: I made up for the lack of shopping by going out today. John bought me the best hat ever for next winter...) We did visit the huge Toys R Us on Broadway and 42nd: to give you an idea of how big it is, there's a full-sized ferris wheel in the centre of the store. FAO Schwartz is still in business too, but I don't think it's as cool: they didn't have any Avatar toys at all.

Tips for travellers: fly into La Guardia Airport. It's closer than JFK.
Stay around Midtown. We stayed at the Rockefeller Center Hotel, a clean, quiet, no-frills hotel with nice fluffy towels and good service. Barely even a lobby to speak of, but the amenities are simple and the bed was really comfy. Plus, it was down the street from Radio City Music Hall, and steps from Fifth Avenue, Times Square, Central Park, and a whole bunch of other great sites. There was also a great little cafe next door that sold breakfast for pretty cheap (compared to going out somewhere to eat, that is.)

Coolest thing we saw there: I'm sure John would beg to differ, but I think it's this:

Help me USPS--you're my only hope!

And because everyone asks, air fare, hotel, and tickets to Les Miserables cost me a total of $1700 Cdn. on Expedia.ca. And it was well worth the money.


Next stop: San Diego Comic-Con! (In...oh...ten years or so...)

Presenting my doppelganger...

Aww, ain't she cute? And here I promised I wouldn't be THAT aunt--you know, the one who posts pictures up and boasts about how damn cute her first-born niece is.

Now at just over a month old, living with Bowie has revealed to me that she is, in fact, my clone. I've discovered some eerie similarities between the two of us that I just know her mom will blame me for passing on:

• We both eat too damned fast.
• We both whine and cry when we want to eat more but can't because we're too full.
• We both swallow air when we eat and, as a result, get painfully bad gas.
• We both love Uncle (white) John to hug and kiss us better.
• We're both easily distracted by shiny objects.
• We both need to eat every three hours or so.
  
• We both babble incoherently to anyone in the room, and fuss when not enough attention is being paid to us.
• In a choice between burping and flatulence, we'd both pick the latter.
• We both like to be swaddled like a burrito at bedtime.
• We both go through a lot of laundry.
  
• Passing gas is our favourite passtime, next to eating and sleeping.
• We both smell like baby: she because she is one, I because I eat them.
  

There are, of course, some marked differences between adult me and baby clone Bowie:

• Her burps are heartily encouraged. Mine are just frowned at.
• Her farts elicit delighted cries and praise. Mine clear the room.
• When she craps her pants, people smilingly clean her up and appraise the quality and quantity of mess she's made, making it dinner conversation. When I...you know, I'm not going there.
• When she's upset and crying inconsolably, she gets a boob shoved into her face. When I'm upset and crying inconsolably, I'm lucky if anyone hands me a beer.
• When she spits up, it's a cause for concern. When I spit up, it's a waste of food and usually an embarrassingly laughable moment.
• When everyone's staring at her in awe, she basks in love and sleeps peacefully. When everyone's staring at me in awe, I start rocking back and forth in paranoia and usually scream "STOP LOOKING AT ME!" at the top of my lungs.
  

"Boy, I wish I was a turtle..."

John and I indulged in a bit of nostalgia by catching matinee of the new TMNT flick, a fun little romp that, while I felt had so much potential as a more adult movie, really did hearken back to the easier, innocent days of cartooning, with bad one-liners, epileptic action, and silly plots.

The real entertainment value in the show, though, was the audience of mostly 6 to 12-year-olds and their mothers, many of whom were singing to old 90's version of the cartoon theme song. To which their children would blink owlishly and go, "Huh?"

At one point, the mother behind me admonished her fairly young son:

"Pedro, don't put the plastic bag over your head. It's not a good idea."

While I was silently holding in a bout of raucous laughter, I had to wonder what my niece would manage to do in the same situation. Once upon a time, my sisters and I would cut the bottom corners off shopping bags and wear them like swimming suits. I always assume this was a girl thing to do with shopping bags.

Apparently, trying to suffocate yourself is a boy thing.

Now that I've changed my first diaper (with minimal assistance from Bowie's mom) and have had to touch another girl's hoo-ha (so THAT'S what the Vaseline is for!) I am beginning to speculate what life holds for my young niece. Will she be like her cartoon-loving, action-figure-collecting parents? Will she sing cartoon theme songs at the top of her lungs after leaving exciting but substanceless movies?

Will she, too, walk out of the theatre avidly declaring her wish to be a Turtle?

I'll say it again: Bowie is DOOOOOOOOOOMMMED.