Gobble

I do a perfectly adequate job of making myself look stupid. Both in my daily life and in the newspaper. So it baffles me when people think they need to help me out in that department.

Last week I was given the delicious assignment of playing paparazzi at a local church during their turkey dinner. The thing about an assignment like that is that, first of all, no one likes to be photographed while eating, second (of all?) these church goers are a fairly tight knit group and tend to stare (not always in a friendly manner) when I walk in.

So there I was, trying to be unobtrusive and smiling sweetly at anyone who turned their frown my way. Meanwhile I can hear this woman behind me complaining, without a trace of humour, about how someone from the paper once printed an unflattering photo of her with her grandchild in the paper. "Oh, my hair was everywhere, it was just terrible!" she griped.

Finally, someone took pity on me and suggested that maybe I should take some photos of the kitchen volunteers. At least they wouldn't have their mouths full. However, this did not mean they would be more cooperative. When I tried to ask him his name, the only extrovert in the entire place instead demanded that I put out my hand.

He was holding a tong-full of turkey, and since I'm a vegetarian, I was inclined to say no. However, I have this thing about actually telling people around here that I'm a vegetarian. Partly because I'm pretty sure I'm already looked on as a complete alien based on my clothes and sense of humour, but also because half the people here who are offering me meat have probably raised and slaughtered it themselves. It seems insulting.

Also, I have this disdain for picky eaters. I can still hear my mom saying "This is not a buffet!" if my brother or I requested something else after she'd already provided us with something nutritious and delicious.

So, I said. "Oh! ha ha, no thanks, ha, I wouldn't want to get any turkey on the camera!"
"Put the camera down for a minute. We'll get you a napkin to wipe your hands"
Foiled by his logic, all I could do was put out my hand and say, "Oh, erm, right, haha, I guess I could do that."

After they all watched me force down the giant piece of bird, which I was actually concerned might be my death by choking, I asked for the turkeymonger's name again.

"Charlie Brown"
"Yeah, somehow I don't think that's it."

Finally he gave me a more reasonable sounding name and I was out of there.

It wasn't until after the paper had gone to print that I ran into one of the women who had been in the kitchen at the time. Apparently after I left he had laughed his fool head off because he gave me the name of some other guy who lives in town. In a small town, you make your own entertainment.

Next time, I'm accidently dropping the turkey on the floor.

Hey la, hey la!

(Photo by Joel Bedford)

After a month where I saw him for a pathetic total of one day, le boyfriend is coming to stay with me for an undecided but certainly extended period of time! Now when I come home from work he'll be there doing my dishes and eating my crackers and taking up space on my couch when I watch Scrubs DVDs. I can't wait!

And no, he will not be allowed to drive my car (see photo).

Cinderella

Once upon a time there was a young woman who spent her days slaving away over a newspaper in a hamlet in rural Canada. Plagued by cruel deadlines and evilly dull events, she longed for an escape. Finally, one day her fairy editor paid her a visit and granted her wish.

So off she went to the big glittering city for a weekend with one of her very best girls. They whiled away the day, chatting and laughing and eating at the newspaper girl's favourite falafel place until it was time to pick up coatracks for the ball.

Then it was back home to sprinkle on some glamour, transform into pretty, pretty princesses and run like maniacs in heels to catch the mystical carriage on wires to the ballroom for the magazine launch/formal.

And then there was dancing, dancing, dancing. The princesses, who were joined by their favourite ballerina quickly discovered their dance cards -yes, there were really dance cards - were full, and they spent the evening being whirled around the dance floor by prince after prince, none of who were the least bit gropey or disgusting.

The newspaper princess did lose a shoe at one point, but quickly retrieved it herself. Unfortunately, she also misplaced a lipstick and a box of smarties. An acceptable loss, anyway.

In the wee hours of the morning, the princesses and the ballerina returned home to massage each other's feet and laugh about the evening's many adventures before tumbling exhausted and happy into bed.

The next day, the princess hung up her tiara and went back to work, but the enchantment of the evening left a smile on her face that would last for weeks to come.