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My review of Flightplan is up at Chart. They edited out my favourite paragraph, and my line about how the airplane has obvious Titanic overtones, but that’s cool.

Because I really, really want these boots.

But right now, I’ve got a grand total of $43.86 in my bank account until payday. It’s so tight right now that I actually bought some groceries on my credit card, something I swore I’d never do.

Damn British Airways for holding my $700.00 hostage. Don’t they know mama needs a pair of Frye boots?

So, my RRBF had his record release party on Friday night. They played the Supermarket in Kensington, and it was a good show, but it’s a lousy venue. T-minus two weeks before he goes on tour for a month. I’ll be super lonely — anyone have any suggestions as per what I can do with myself?

As you know from my previous gushing post about Joan Clark’s new book An Audience of Chairs, I had a chance to meet her last week and was absolutely thrilled. She’s a lovely, intelligent and kind woman who said in response to my question, “How long did it take you to write the book,” the following:

“Four years. I actually started thirty years ago, but couldn’t finish. It just wasn’t the right time. And then I started again twelve years ago and found the same thing.”

All in all, she’s been thinking about those characters, that story, and that tale for thirty years. Thirty years of having the characters talk back in her head, bash around with real life, and wait to really settle. It’s a wonderfully inspiring thought that time only makes the idea grow stronger, and will brings it forth, but its really the characters themselves that take time coming to life.

I went on a bit of a Lori Lansens bender. But I just couldn’t help myself, her books are like a big pile of Halloween candy, super sharp, wickedly sweet, but have a sadness to them that breaks apart like Rockets in your mouth. Rush Home Road tells the story of Addy Shadd, an elderly woman who lives in a trailer park near Chatham, Ontario, who fosters a young girl named Sharla Cody when her mother up and leaves her for a boyfriend with better opportunities. Addy comes from Rush Home, a community built on the edge of the Underground Railway, and her life meets tragic circumstance after tragic circumstance before she finally finds her way back home.

In comparison, The Girls is a novel about conjoined twins who have existed for almost thirty years attached at the head. As the world’s longest surviving craniogapus twins, Ruby and Rose are now writing their autobiography. It’s a wonderful bittersweet tale, and like Sharla, Ruby and Rose are abandoned at birth by their mother, left to be taken care of by an older nurse, Lovey, and her Croatian husband, Stash, they live a remarkable life in Leaford. In fact, their tale is ever-more remarkable by how different and distinct they are from one another, and yet their relationship is both tender and careful at the same time.

Both books are ridiculously well written, ridiculously addictive and are wonderful examples of storytelling at its best. I almost missed my RRBF’s sister’s baby shower because I started reading Rush Home Road and didn’t want to stop. What good books to almost reach 50 with!

Over the past few days I met an author I’m a huge fan of, found a pair of boots that I almost spent over $400.00 on, watched Flightplan for an online review I have to write, finished two more books, and carried on with my full-time job.

So much to say, so little time.

I finished Wolves in Chic Clothing and The Journal of Mortifying Moments. I know they count towards the final number of books I’ve read this year, but it’s like reading air, there’s almost no substance although they do keep you going. They’re both terrifyingly predictable, but at least the JMM had some cute segments about the main character, Kerry’s, most embarrassing moments—and believe you me, I could relate.

Ahem, I once asked my grade school almost-boyfriend if he liked reading Agatha Christie (because he was really a fifty year-old housewife?), tripped and/or dropped something whenever I saw him or he walked by (including a total face/nose plant over a chained driveway on the way home as I tried to act cool), and this coming from a ballet dancer, and then convinced myself that he liked this girl Kathryn who totally tried to steal him from me and then he moved away thinking I was a total freak.

Oh boy, did I just say all that out loud?

Jason Hughes, if you’re out there, I did like you when we were in Grade 8, and I was kind of a freak, but you can’t blame me, I was “creative.” Heh.

Well, my RRBF has instilled a solid sense of complaining into our everyday lives. That means that I’ve inherited his uncanny ability to complain about everything. And I do, but I’m even tired of listening to myself.

So here’s what I’m tired of complaining about:

1. The price of gas. Or rather, listening to other people complain about the price of gas. I read a post of Wing Chun’s that said, you know, gas shouldn’t really be so cheap, and I kind of agree with her. If the prices stay up then people will actually think twice about the resources they use. Well, until they’re on the TTC like I was on Sunday with smelly perfume lady on one side and unbearable BO buddy on the other.

2. Not eating sugar. Sigh. It’s been almost three weeks, and I’m doing well, I think. But I still get cravings and I totally crashed today and ate potato chips, but salt & vinegar—so no sugar.

3. The state of my non-house. Our house is barely off the ground, and even with the new windows, I’m still frustrated and grumpy because it’s not nearly where I thought we’d be by now. And we’re [this close] to having spent the majority of our money already. Ah, the joys of owning your own home.

Okay. That’s it, no more complaining about any or all of the above things. And if I bring them up again, you’re too right to wallop me over the virtual head.

Is the perfect example of how having all the right ingredients doesn’t necessary mean you’ll end up with a good picture. The script is weak, and no matter how hard you try, I don’t think romantic comedies between ghosts and the living work. (Sticking my fingers in my ears means I’m not listening to anyone talking about the schlock-fest that is Ghost).

Parts of the movie were hard to watch, though, but that’s just because I take everything so personally. There was a girl in a coma (like my mum) and a love interest named David (like my dad), and so I cried a little. But in the end, it was a disappointingly mediocre film. I’m hanging my hat on In Her Shoes the rock solid combination of Shirley MacLaine, Toni Collette and Jennifer Weiner will not let me down. (Yes, I’m choosing to ignore the whole Cameron Diaz angle).

Seems that a friend of mine from work ran into Ethan Hawke at a screening of Romance and Cigarettes at the Film Fest. He apparently rolled into town and then rolled up on some Toronto hottie at a party later on too. Why oh why am I always sick when all the fun happens.

Bah!

Only kidding. There was just a small part of me (love for my RRBF aside) that screamed, “Noooo, that could have been meeeee! In another life and in the chicklit novel of my choosing.

Although it would have taken all of my good sense not to tell him to stop imitating Jack Kerouac and write his own book, but I digress.