Cougar, MILF, Sexy Brain & Hot French Chick

The best and the brightest of Commerce Women.
Taken at Commerce Formal ... March 31, 2005.
Oh my...

Things to Smile About

new white SQUARE dishes - even the bowls
fresh strawberries and whipped cream
green mint martinis
Beth's friendship
long dark hair
"Sex and the City" on DVD
shopping with my mom
newly acquired car knowledge
winning a scholarship
big bowls of buttery popcorn
little black dresses
my handbag collection
guy friends
"Grey' s Anatomy" on Sunday nights
chai tea from Starbucks
the Terry Fox commemorative coin
credit cards
doing laundry for free
Old Navy stretch jeans
BERT
my nephew on webcam
the end of night classes
dangly earrings
MSN conversations
the future

It's All About the Bartender, Baby!

I think one of the oldest cliches, to which I am a sad slave, is the hotness of the bartender. Bartenders are universally considered to be sexy - and for the most part they are , even when they aren't. It's likely true that the Tom Cruise cheese-fest Cocktail is partially to blame for my bartender lust. I mean, really, isn't that exactly what we want behind the bar? A bit of hotness that gets sweaty as the human temperature in the place rises. A wicked smile or saucy grin that you can imagine has been conjured just for you (and after a couple of drinks that's not so hard). A nice ass to look at when that beer is taken out of the lower fridge. The shaking and pouring and garnishing ... its all about good hands. So the allure is easy to identify.

My real-life bartender stories have been fizzily sweet enough to stoke my interest further. The one man I really loved was a bartender - who could do all the tricks. My best fling ever was built on a dare (thank you Nann!) to see if I could actually take the bartender home. Which leads me to my next point. I believe that part of the attraction of the bartender is that he is a sober man in drunk-haze environment. He's not there to scope you out. He's there to work. And so, attention from this individual is worth mucho ducets more because you think its sincere, untainted, straight up. Bartenders of course are completely aware of this element to their role and will work you (and your wallet) as best they can. You know the bartender is good if you get all the goosebumps and never feel cheated the next day.

Currently, my friend J-man is a bartender. Everyone should have a bartender friend, because even as the bartender is full of hot notions, he is still a provider of alcohol and you want one of them in your corner! Its fun to visit J-man because he works those angles. What's better is that he exudes all the bartender qualities you expect but he hasn't let it go to his head ... yet. And because I know a friendly, neighbourhood bartender I come to my third point, my love of a modern social cliche - the martini. Thanks to the fast pouring of J-man I have been introduced to the raspberry chocolate martini. My favourite flavours in a single, iced glass, of intoxicating perfection. I'm not a fan of straight liquor, which makes traditional martini drinking difficult. But this new brand of sweetness is all I need. Last night we added an After Eight martini to the list of musts - my favourite chocolate in liquid form!

So in the end, I guess this ramble is a thank you note to a school buddy who, in the dark hole that is Sudbury nightlife, has offered me two lovely cliches without any excuses: a bartender and a martini. What else are friends for?

Wings + Beer = Friends

This semester I established a "Wings & Beer" evening for my fellow commerce students. The purpose of the event was to give me the chance to get to know some of the students that I wanted to know and hang out with those I liked. Well, thankfully it has done just that!

In back to back weeks, the Wings table has been packed with all sorts of people. It has become a commerce event on random Tuesday nights. Even with only 24-hr notice, the grape-vine can bring 30 people to the table. That feels great. It vindicates all those moments when I felt so uncool cause noone ever wanted to do what I wanted to do. It's like journalism pasta dinners at Volo all over again!

And, I have been lucky to slowly build a key group of Wings die-hards who make it to the events and stay till the end and beyond. Cheers to J-man, Beth, Tony, and Bri-guy and here's to a summer where we may actually hang with "school friends" outside of the borders of our institution and the timeline of Wings.

I'll Give You 3 Million Brain Cells for that Memory

The last pub night of the year (and of my time at this particular university) was a staggering success Saturday evening. Frankly, I am surprised that I remember it all. WOW! I really drank a lot ... and fast.

It all started in a residence room with two friends and a half-mickey of rye. With only 45 minutes of drinking time available it was a ginger-infused boat race. Nothing like getting to the bar already drunk. Time to bring on the pitchers! Sometimes beer is the easiest thing in the world to drink. And rotating rounds of Rickards' Pale, ensured that I got at least a pitcher X 1.5 into my system.

The real joy of the evening was that the bar was filled with people I know. There were conversation opportunities around every corner. Commerce kids dominated the foosball table. It was a perfect chance to get visual good byes of past group members, that soccer boy, the cute curling kid, hot bar staff, random acquaintances, and fun friends.

The flip-side of that joy was the sad, drunken moments that I wish I could erase. Like smearing lip gloss all over my face. Or, tripping on my pant hem and falling against the pool table. Or, lying down in a friend's lap during the ride home because I couldn't be bothered to be vertical. And, finally making pathetic attempts to type once at home thus revealling that the new mantra is "Don't Drink and MSN". Yes, the reality of a fantastically drunk Raye is not always pretty - and up until midnight I had been handling my alcohol so well.

In the end, I have to give thanks to SS for actually initiating the evening. It never really occurred to me to go to the Pub and I wasn't even sure I would stay. But all the pieces of a last blast fell into place and the night was exactly what it was supposed to be. Cheers!

Sex, Chocolate & Endings

I have to confess that the last two days have not been my best. Having completed my final semester of an undergraduate degree, one would think that free-spirited elation would be coursing through my veins and propelling me into irrational happy dances at every turn. SO, not the case.

Two days out of school and I am bored. I have already visited every retail therapy outlet in the city. I have enjoyed my relaxing cup of chai at the bookstore by the fire. I have slept, and slept, and slept. I have used up all my weekly guilty pleasure vouchers in 48 hours. The result was the Blockbuster check-out girl saying, "Haagen Dasz and Sex in the City - sounds like a fun night."

Well, not when you put it so bluntly to the bored me at 11 pm on a FRIDAY night. See, a "fun" night would be having sex and then eating chocolate ice cream. It is not, substituting the man with frozen-coco-on-a-spoon and watching fictional women have relationships. But, there I was... the sad, lonely, desperate women who seeks comfort in a melting pint and sitcom friends as if I'd just broken up with someone.

Normally, this kind of night would be a joy. It would be the self-serving break in the midst of monotonous readings, challenging case analysis and frustrating group meetings. But all those things have ended. The typical release of such an evening didn't arrive. I was consoling the end of a relationship alright - the end of my relationship with university. It's daily stimulation is over. My crush-sighting opportunities are over. My random coffee conversations are over. My computer lab craziness in the wee hours is over. The faces and places that have made my days for the last three years are over. And as excited as I am about what is to come, tonight just felt empty.

Crush-ness

On a recent night out with the gals, the topic of crushes came up.

The thing about crushes is that they hang in the air of your mind - sometimes like a sweet perfume that fills your days with happy thoughts, and other times like a maddening stench that you would irradicate if you only knew how. The former is likely when you are in the throes of early crush-hood, the latter is common many months later when the reality that he's an unobservant moron begins to emerge.

Everyone knows that I have been nurturing a long-term crush this year. The very extent of its length shows the futility of it all - but I can never completely "surrender the fantasy". The interesting thing about this year's crush is how it differs from previous ones. I have made a distinct departure from - what Nat would call - my attraction to cocky assholes.

Further, I seem to have stumbled upon an attraction trend that favours general good-guy-ness, decent values, humour, and the aura of being really nice to wake up to. Much of the lustiness is gone - being reserved for lust-objects rather than crushes. The haute couture grooming standards are less relevant - I still notice, but do not recoil at footware. The crush is now about being a reasonably manly-man (in either tshirts or ties) who loves his family, has life-long friends, knows how to make you laugh, is articulate and is involved in a world of interests of which he speaks passionately. And a cheeky smile, bright eyes, and huggable-ness are brilliant accessories.

So in my new understanding, I present my new poster-boy of crush-ness. He has always caught my eye but often in passing at it moved on to hotter properties. But really, this man is a catch in the true sense of the word. In a real sense of the word. And, go figure, he's single.

his crushworthiness: Jeremy Piven

Sin City - movie review

Sin City opened around the country on April 1st with an 18A rating. That restriction is considered the kiss of death in the U.S. and reports say that director Rodrigues pulled a few stylish punches to keep the kiddies in line down south. I can't imagine what those pulled punches were.

Sin City is rife with R-rated material - wanton killing sprees, gratuituous nudity, mutiple dismemberments - but then that's the point. The film navigates between three intersecting plotlines, and as the body count rises the thrill of the ride mellows into an impressed satisfaction. Details of the film's "look" were mass-media'd to death before the theatre lights dimmed but to actually witness it is another matter. It is, (frank miller-ly) incredible. The visual stimulation of melded live action and a noir digital world easily shames the "Sky Captain" experiment and gives this round to Rodriguez over Tarantino (who is credited as a "guest director" and whose own Kill Bill now feels so 2004 in comparison). Using only occasional colour flashes, the film runs entirely in B&W and has so much depth you can almost feel the shadows. The use of fluorescence to ink the bloody moments is startlingly effective. The monochromatic pallette helps to keep the visceral elements from becoming overwhelming therefore allowing you to remain within the experience as truly grotesque acts are perpetrated. Shock, disgust, incredulousness, lust, and awe will all be felt as you journey through Sin City.

Admittedly, I have never read the comics so I have no thoughts to offer on the film's faithfulness. I can, however, report that this strong a mix of characters hasn't been seen in quite some time - reading the opening credits is an orgasmic recognition moment for credit-reading freaks like me (Bruce Willis, Benecio Del Toro, Clive Owen, Jessica Alba, Powers Boothe, Britanny Murphy, Rutger Hauer, Nick Stahl, Josh Hartnett, Rosario Dawson, Micheal Clarke Duncan, Alexis Bledel, Elijah Wood, Jaime King, Micheal Madson and Mickey Rourke) - a lot of B-listers who bring their A-game.

First of all, Bruce continues to be THE man. They guy just oozes sex appeal with his deep crows feet carving smile lines down from his eyes. He can rescue me any day. Clive continues his streak of being the lout you lust after. It's hard to choose between the penetrating eyes and the gravel voice for which is more seductive. Thankfully, the film gives you plenty of both and tops it off with making him soaking wet (or covered in tar) for a good chunk of the action. Rosario deserves mention for a completely intoxicating performance of raw she-power and Elijah continues to corner the market on creeeepy. But the most rewarding touch has to be Mickey Rourke's stunning turn as an almost indestructable and morally bankrupt man on a revenge crusade. All the women have wide eyes, suckable lips and very few clothes. The men are either hell-bent on protecting the women or interested solely in destroying them. The story is a collection of collisions of the three.

Overall, the film charges along at a speeding pace and covers a lot of territory in two hours. The dialogue is text-box succinct and the action plays like illustrations come to life. Sin City is exactly what it was intended to be: a graphic novel in motion.