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So, pencils are once again hip. Who knew? Oh wait, or is it the puzzle that’s hip? And when do you think the mystical “powers that be” will come up with a dummed-down Hollywood version of Sudoku?

This is one of my favourite pictures from Ireland, in Derry, well, in “free Derry.” It’s the site of Bloody Sunday. I love the murals in Northern Ireland, and love that the tradition is continued still. They were busy painting over Gerry Adams when Tina and I walked along Falls Road.

The Cottage “Weekend Update”: My bionic hip rocked so hard this weekend. I picked up 5 bags of concrete, each weighing 66lbs. SIXTY-SIX pounds. My legs hurt like hell, but I did it. And then I re-arranged my grandmother’s cottage in the “heritage” format (translation: put the furniture back to the way it was when I was a kid). And we cleared out a bunch of garbage. My lovely RRBF (in addition to receiving 5 Ns in Now magazine in terms of the review of his latest record), painted some of the windows for me. Ah, cottage life. It’s a vacation no matter how long you can get away for.

Is almost upon us, I’m heading up north to spend the weekend with my RRBF’s family at my cottage. Hopefully, I’ll get some reading done! And maybe some writing too. Enjoy the sunshine. Fingers crossed I don’t end up with a rash.

A few things that occupied my mind for a milli-second today:

1. Why didn’t they stay broken up and not release what’s certainly to be an album full of the worst lyrics ever written, as OLP typically do: “She wishes she was a dancer / That she never heard of cancer.” How can they keep a straight face? Or am I supposed to be deep in thought meditating on the irony in his words? Give. It. Up.

2. Robert Mugabe’s Zimbabwe seems destined for civil war or something equally terrifying.

3. Stephen Harper looks like a knucklehead in this picture…and it probably won’t help him win the favour of the nation either. Alberta’s sweet, sweet “extra” cash be damned.

4. Sadie Frost really doesn’t want to have her picture taken, and I don’t blame her; it’s not like her life isn’t hard enough these days. You know?

5. I’m enjoying the blog war between Warren Kinsella and Globe columnist Carl Wilson. Boys with keyboards are funny, and punk, don’t forget punk. I don’t know if I’ll read Kinsella’s book, but I’m glad that books like that get written, if only for the fact that they’re keeping the dream of punk alive. And not to take sides, but dude calls his blog “Zoilus,” that alone makes me think I’d rather side with Kinsella. What does it mean, ohh, how deep, a made up word. Yawn.

As the leaves start to change, a collective sigh across the city brings out cloistered sweaters, and ladies everywhere hold on just that one minute longer to open-toed shoes, I celebrate by doing some high kicks in my living room for the start of fall television.

Banished from my ever-flicking fingertips are the terrible reality television and schlocky mid-season dumpers because the real fun is about to begin. Now the challenge remains whether or not a) I’ll be sick of watching television by October or b) the shows all start to suck in their second (or third, forth, etc) seasons.

So I present a special 5 Things I’m Obsessed With These Days post:

1. My Name is Earl. Jason Lee saddles his kids with crazy-ass names, but I heart him, and I’ll watch this show with crossed fingers hoping that it’ll actually be funny instead of just appearing mildly comic in the trailer.

2. The return of the WB shows. Although my love for the WB has definitely waned this year, I’ll still watch Gilmore Girls. And if Luke and Lorelei don’t get married, well, there’s precious little happiness left in this cold, cold world. And I’m only mildly embarrassed to admit that I love What I Like About You. Not so much that I’ll tape it if I’m going out on a Friday night, but I’ll definitely avoid leaving until after the show is over. It’s sad, I know.

3. ER. Now, I know the show has lost some of it’s vigour in its old age, but I’ve seen just about every episode over the last five or so years, and dedication like that just doesn’t come easily to someone as scatterbrained as me, so I’m in it for the long haul.

4. The season-opener of Alias. Hum, what to say, what to say…okay, just a couple of words: car crash, fake identities, pregnancy and J.J. Abrams—it’s a recipe for success (I hope).

5. The Wire. Okay, it doesn’t start until 2006, but every month brings me that much closer to my favourite show coming back on the air.

Stupid spammers—do they actually think that anyone’s going to click through from the comments to their ridiculous web sites?

The internet is such a magnificent tool, a way to spread information, a source of entertainment, a place for me to express myself, but it’s also a cesspool of the lowest common demoninators of human society.

All I have to say is shut up stupid-ass spammers. F@#k you and your penile enlargements, melon-breasted women, dish networks, strange African communications and everything else I never need to hear about.

William Leith’s memoir is a cutting, acerbic, smart, fascinating look at one man’s struggle with obesity and weight loss. Recently, the Globe and Mail featured Leith’s book in their Summer Reading Series, and then my friend Zesty wrote a very thoughtful post about the book on her own blog last week. Needless to say, the book has been “in the news” (in terms of my small circle of online wanderings, of course).

Ads for Leith’s book were all over London when I was there, great big posters with huge letters explaining how it was the “confessions of a food addict.” Explaining with a sub-title, how this book wasn’t about “the” diet, wasn’t about the latest, greatest get-rich-type scam in terms of losing weight, but about one man’s struggle to come to terms with his own struggle with the scales.

The very first chapter of the book finds Leith on the fattest day of his life. And, like Leith, I’ve struggled on my own with extra pounds these last few years of my life; like Leith, I wake up every day on the fattest day of my life. Now for a former girl who wouldn’t be caught dead eating anything bad in public, a girl who thought that the best thing about being deathly ill in high school was getting to be super skinny, that “pretty” ex-dancer and/or girl about town, it’s really disheartening to wake up everyday knowing that you are a tubby, chubby version of your former self.

I’m not fat per se, but I am overweight for my height, like so many “average” Canadians, and like Leith, I have an unhealthy relationship with the food like potato chips, candy and/or breads. I know I’m addicted, but I just don’t have the energy to change my eating habits. And on top of that, I’m now commuting to work, so I’m not even biking that much anymore. In the end, I’m afraid the next time I get on the scale, I’ll be well above and beyond my fattest day ever.

Annnyyywaaay. Back to the book, it’s a really great read, not unlike My Year of Meats or Fast Food Nation, it’s a hyper-personal, nonfiction look at the diet industry and its gurus, with the majority of the action surrounding Leith’s interview with Dr. Robert Atkins, of the Atkins Diet fame. On the cusp of finishing the book, licking the salt and vinegar off my fingers, remnants of the latest bag of Lays to grace our household, I’ve decided that I’m going to once again try to change my eating habits.

Every couple of months or so, I try to give up eating sugar, both for the health of my poor, overworked kidneys and so that I can train my body not to look for the insulin jump it’s come to consistently crave starting every day at about 10 AM. These days, I’m dying for a chocolate bar barely after even putting a foot to my tiled floor at 6:30 in the morning. It’s too much. Sure, I can make all kinds of excuses and, like Leith, can find all sorts of psychological and physiological explanations for my own food addictions, but when it comes right down to it, a commitment to being healthy means so much more than remembering to take my meds every day (which is always a bloody struggle).

I love books that make me think, that give me lots of ammunition to make a change in my own life, but more than that, make me feel less alone when it comes to facing a mirror that reflects a lumpy, dumpy aging version of myself. In the end, it’s really up to me whether or not I actually have the conviction for change. So, starting September 1, I’ll keep you posted in terms of how well the no wheat, no refined sugar annual attempt at eating better actually goes.

Flying down the 401 in the hot Sunday sun, makes me think of Bridget Jones, of all characters. When she and Daniel Cleaver take their “mini-break” and naturally runs into Mark Darcy, her whole life sort of crashes into what was supposed to be a relaxing vacation. That’s kind of what life is like at my cottage. It’s wonderful and beautiful and even a bit magical, to spend even a minimum of 26 hours away from the city is a treat, and you always feel like you’ve had a vacation.

But it’s also family property, which I love, because it means that there are always all kinds of people crashing into my weekend. This time it was the first boy I ever kissed, and I see him at least once a year, but it’s always funny to see people you’ve known all your lives. They seem to understand you so well, despite not seeing you on a regular basis, well, ever any more.

All in all, I’m exhausted, but in a good way. The RRBF’s family will be heading up north with us for the long weekend, and I made sure my grandmother’s cottage was immaculate, with new bedding, all vacuumed, and completely tidy. Funny thing is, someone else could crash into next week and all the hard work would be ruined. Oddly, if that happened at home, I would probably peak, but because it’s the cottage, it’s just something I’m used to.

The strangest thing showed up in the mail, well, I guess it’s not all that strange, but it’s an invitation to a university reunion taking place during Homecoming Weekend at Queen’s in Kingston.

For the most part, I hate rewriting. In fact, I hate most things that involve going back and re-doing what you’ve already done. Maybe it’s why I’ve never finished anything substantial in terms of my own writing—I have no trouble finishing up projects I’m assigned to do, so if someone assigned my own novel, told me I’d be graded, I’d probably finish it. But I’d never go back and re-write it, at least substantially, anyway.

And that’s sort of how I feel about class reunions. They had one at my high school a while back, and I didn’t go because, well, I’m just not all that interested in reliving my “glory days.” For the most part, they ended up with me being diseased, half-crazy and quite in need of serious amounts of therapy, which I didn’t receive until well after I’d finished university, where I’ll have to admit, the same pattern sort of repeated itself.

So I guess, with all the bad press high school and university got in the scope of my ever-longer life, it’s no wonder the last thing on earth I’d like to do is re-live it ten years later at a kegger during Homecoming. Am I wrong in thinking that way?

Here’s the thing. Writing a book is hard. Writing a good book, even harder. And finding a good editor, well, that must be the hardest. Because I just took a quick, ahem, break and started to read, The J.A.P. Chronicles. And before I even got past page five, came across the following cliche: “Neither of them slept that morning. First they ate pancakes and eggs at an all-night diner…” oh yes, it gets worse, “They made love until noon, his white hands moving over her with slow, exhilarating skill, his lips finding places even she didn’t know could be kissed…”

Blech.