Writers Funk

I tend to be a fairly friendly person. I tend to have patience for people, within reason. I would describe myself as being social. Today when I entered the "coffee shop with zero personality," it was for good reason. The walls are white washed, the tables all uniform and plain, hipster hair and white gleaming Macbooks present at each. I chose this coffee shop above the plethora of charm filled options that grace the streets of East Vancouver for it's cold atmosphere, and pretentious clientele. My hair is not asymmetrical enough for me to be approached by hipsters, nor are my jeans skinny enough, or my shirt shapeless and unflattering enough. This is the place to get work done, distractions minimal, people to distracted by themselves to approach me.

I politely oblige when asked to plug in a charger, or when someone asks about the quality of my internet connection, (it's quite poor at the moment actually). My notebook, and sketchbook, and cellphone are spread across the table around my laptop, headphones securely placed on head. I'm in the zone.

As I search for a word thats on the tip of my tongue, I notice that free tables are few and far between, I claimed one of the last and only available seats. While typing a particularily brilliant line of what I'm sure I thought was life changing prose, I was interrupted by the accent I loathe over all accents. It cuts through me like a searing knife, and makes me cringe,

"Mind i share your table?" asks the Australian woman, book in hand.

Dilemma. You see, I really do mind if she sits here. I've spread myself out, I'm comfortable, and lets face it, this table isn't big enough for the both of us.

"I won't take up that much room." she pleads.

I can't be that person, I can feel the eyes around me watching the situation unfold, so I clumsily and awkwardly in true Jus fashion try and condense my things. Shoving my books back in my bag so that only my phone, laptop and coffee remain on the table.

She sits. Out comes her book, her phone, her notebook, her glasses case, her sunglasses case (it's raining!) her pencil case (?!), her toque comes off her head and lays across my phone. Suddenly, my laptop is perched as close to the edge of the table as possible, my chair is pushed back so I can retain a little leg room comfort and my table has been conquered.

I let her sit, elbows constantly bumping, sloshing coffee out of her cup, legs crossing and uncrossing under the table, bumping yet again. My patience wearing thinner and thinner and me desperately trying to not let my lack of good humour show on my face. After all, I did say she could sit here. Finally, a table opens up, and I make a point of looking at it longingly, hoping she'll get the hint. Ha. No dice.

At this point I am as equally annoyed as I am ashamed of myself for feeling so selfish, so I reach for my cigarettes and make my escape into the drizzle for a quick nicotine cool down. As I'm slowly puffing my way into an early grave, I let fall my veil of feigned imperturbability and I notice through the window, she's watching me.

I return to my seat, re-don my headphones and begin typing. Moments after my return, she gathers her things, slips on her coat, gives me a death glare, and leaves. At long last, my personal space is mine again. My genius is free to flow out, unimpeded by this woman in my bubble.

Yet, here I am, some 600 words later, all previous grand literary postulations buried in frustration and a mild sense of guilt and confusion.

I'm stuck, and my coffee tastes like tomato juice.

I just flew in from the Olio fest, and boy are my ears tired!

Last night was the first night of OLIO festival, a three day independent music, comedy, art and film festival. Venues across Vancouver played host to some of the best independent rock and roll the west coast has to offer. While many music goers were lucky enough to take in the likes of local rockers, The Manvils, and the ever talented gents of Sun Wizard (seriously though, check their Myspace), I was up to my ears in skinny jeans, fashion frames, and pretentious affectations.

Thank god only eight people graced the dance floor at Club 560 as The SSRIs took stage, the fewer casualties, the better. Featuring the enormous percussive skill of Tony Dallas of Boogie Monster (another misguided collaboration), and the musical talent of a badger in heat, the SSRIs are about as subtle as a mack truck and just as painful. They are neither progressive nor psychedelic, and it's amazing to see how four guys with demonstrable skill, have worked so hard to appear as though they haven't got a clue. With songs that have no discernible start or finish, melody or time signature, a self indulgent drummer, and a bass player with as much charisma as his hipster hair and ambiguous side long glances will allow, The SSRIs are the epitome of self-righteous, ego-maniacal scenester dribble and would do better to go back to the drawing board and try to remember what real music sounds like.

As eight people turned into a hundred, The Racoons garnered fans just by being better than the opener. Wads of kleenex were removed from ears as the crowd settled in for some mediocre indie rock. Not much can really be said for the Racoons, who's equally ambiguous attitude and general air of disinterest in their music was contrasted by the chops of guitar player Murray Mckenzie and his Jonas Brothers hair.

Finally two mind numbing hours later, the headliner, Edmonton's Shout Out Out Out Out, took to the stage, played half a song and then was rudely interrupted by the fire alarm. Whether some one pulled it, or it was set off by the fog machine, the band kept playing to the beat of the bell until house lights were brought up and they were asked to stop. Some twenty minutes later as the firemen exited the venue it was apparent that so did most of the crowd. No matter, front man Nik just picked up where the band left off and Shout Out Out Out Out went on and on and on and on. Having two drummers in a band can be a great thing, it can be fun and allow for some wicked rhythms. Having two drummers in the same band, mirroring each other, and playing the exact same thing is just a waste of a kit, and stage space, especially when one abundantly outshines the other as is the case with SO4. Musically this six piece band really only needs to be a four piece, but that depends if we're counting the vocorder as a member. Falling to his knees, and covering his eyes halfway through the set one wonders if singer Nik Kozuk's music might even be too much for himself. The crowd didn't even call for an encore, the music stopped, they slowly filed out of the room and went home, a tell tale sign of an exhausting night.

While the Olio Festival has a number of great acts to look forward to I can't say that last nights show was much of a success, with the terrible opener, poor turn out, mediocre talent and the fire alarm, one thing is for certain, it can only get better from here. Go to http://www.oliofestival.com/ to check out more events happening all over the city this weekend.

Daddy Daughter Day

As some of you may or may not know, I cover a 5 hour shift once a week at a children’s toy store in Vancouver’s urban hippy neighborhood known as “The Drive.” This experience is both incredibly fun and incredibly eye opening. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been shocked by the leniency of parents while purchasing birthday gifts for other children, how many parents turn a blind eye to their child’s misbehavior and how seldom it is that you see a parent not just teaching their child to be nice, and polite, but considerate. Yes, we know that sharing is nice and we do it because we get positive reinforcement from our parents, but its increasingly apparent to me that children are not being taught to consider other peoples feelings. To clean up the mess they made because the poor girl in the shop will have to do it if they don’t, and she looks like she had a long night last night and might still have a hangover.

Two weeks ago, on a particularly sober morning, I was caught off guard while preemptively separating the medieval and cowboy Playmobile sets, lest I have an “Indian in the cupboard” situation on my hands. I felt a tug on the frays of my skinny scenester cut-off shorts to find a tiny girl chewing on a Play-Doh ravioli cutter, she couldn’t have been more than three years-old, and was dressed in pink overalls, and a pink shirt, with pink Mary Janes, and a pink ribbon in her baby soft blonde hair. She pulled at the frays of my shorts to tell me, in so many words, that I had dropped a Playmobile set without noticing. Her tiny hands, obstructed by her Play-Doh toy, could barely grasp the box, a particularly gruesome medieval war, as she tried to lift it up to give to me. Moments after I thanked her, and she fell over in delight, her father joined her.

He was dressed in Vans, cut off black Dickies shorts, sleeve tattoos, a “Pro Skates” t-shirt, a winning smile and empty ring finger. He picked up his daughter, and proceeded to ask me if we had any fairy costumes, unfortunately all of our costumes are for little girls who want to be fairies and not girls who are the same size as real ones. He looked at the tiny creature on his hip, and said “Not a problem, I’ll just make you one sweetheart.”

Cue: Heart melt. It may just be my aching ovaries, or my raging hormones and desperate loneliness, but this tattooed, skateboard daddy, with a daughter who just wanted to be a fairy (although I’m convinced she already was) made me believe in parenthood again. Not only was he willing to make his tiny daughter a fairy costume, (which looked like the last thing a guy like him would want to be caught doing on a Saturday night) he wasn’t trying, like many parents who come into my store, to turn his kid into a clone of him. Skate-Daddies come in all the time, with their kids in mohawks, and Baby-Vans, and ironic shirts that say things like “Recently Evicted” and “iPood” or baby “Ramones” and “Guns N Roses” t-shirts. All of these poor children are mini clones of their not so cool parents, and may very well grow up to resent the fact that daddy had a skateboard.

While I dug through the dress-up clothes to try and find a pair of tiny pink wings, the little creature he was holding squirmed away and found the play table at the back of the store. We chatted about Pro Skates, a Halifax based skate shop, how he used to work there and how he had moved to Vancouver while he constantly kept an eye on his charge.

After a short while she decided she had had enough and, clutching a firefighter toy, she decided to let daddy know she was tired and hungry and possibly poopy, in the loudest way possible. Skate Daddy wasn’t going to have any of it. In ten seconds he did what I have seen other parents take twenty minutes, much pleading and the purchasing of unnecessary toys to do. He quieted his daughter, made his purchase, and began to exit the store. Realizing his daughter still had a toy in her hand he asked her to go return it, knowing he was almost out the door and the battle was almost won, I offered to do it for her.

“No, thank you, she needs to learn.” he said. He was teaching her what I wanted every parent who comes into the shop to teach their kids.

This interaction with Skate Daddy was eye opening for me, this beautiful creature was so lucky to have such a great person on her side, fighting for her, protecting her, teaching her, making fairy costumes for her. I thought of my own Dad. He wasn’t a Skate Daddy, he wasn’t a fairy costume making daddy, he wasn’t sleeve tattoo daddy. While I silently wished that he was heart melting daddy I quickly realized that my daddy was all of those things.

He was Rock Star Daddy, skinned knee daddy, and always there daddy. When shit hit the fan, it was easy to blame my parents, and for my parents it was easy to blame each other. No matter how I felt in my teenage crazed hormone years, the years I tortured my father and he didn’t understand, the year I left home at 15 and left him alone, he was still always there, and still always the daddy who picked me up when I fell, the one who made things clear for me when they got all foggy. Skate Daddy and my daddy were one and the same, and I hope that the miniature person who tugged on my frays will someday realize how fortunate she is to be blessed with someone like him, and hopefully he’ll be able to survive the years that she doesn’t act so angelic and doesn’t know why. Because, trust me, those years are not pretty, and it’s just as hard being the daughter as it is being the daddy.

SAY "NO" TO CAMEL-TOE

I, Jus Alexandra Percy, am in no way a fashonista. I am in no way up on the latest trends and am of the t-shirt and jeans school of thought. I get excited when I find a new hoody, I relish in the thought of a new skate shoe, and yes, I wear white after labour day. I have immense trouble walking in high heels, I do not possess the patience for clutches and small hand bags and every attempt at shaving my legs ends like a Brian De Palma film.

Lately though, I’d have to say that my style radar has been piqued. Out of nowhere it seems I have become exceedingly aware of a several trends. Not because they are so fabulous that I am forced to gaze in awe and amazement, quite the contrary. A few of these so called styles have me wondering what the hell we’re thinking and as the summer months are approaching and we are no longer in need of thick, warm layers one in particular has got me gagging.

It was 3 AM and I was just coming out of my club where I work. Several hours on my feet, dealing with drunken dance club types, and having had my ass fondled several times by strangers had left me exhausted and cranky. Stumbling down the block, in search of sustenance from the late night pizza joint, I was accosted by what I was sure was a character from The Jersey Shore. Dressed in a fake tan, big hair, tiny bolero-style, acid wash denim vest, silicone tits and leggings, this monstrosity had her lady-bits on show for the world to see.

Now there are many things wrong with what Snookie The Second was wearing, but none more so than the leggings. I am an 80’s child, my sister Renee grew up in the 80’s while I was merely born in the decade. As a result I got a lot of her 80’s era hand me downs, slouchy sweaters, scrunchies and matching legging and sweater sets, legwarmers included. I wore leggings several times a week in the early 90s, neon green with stars, purple zebra stripes, hot pink leopard print, mind you I was five years old, the sweaters that matched usually hung down long enough to cover my behind, and the leggings were thick enough and large enough to not shock my teachers and friend’s parents.

Thankfully trends have evolved and side ponies, shoulder pads, crop tops and scrunchies are a thing of the past. Apparently, we haven’t seen the last of the legging, and we shouldn’t, a very handy and useful accoutrement that allows skirt wearing in cold weather, flexibility on dance stages and yoga classes, and a great layer technique for all styles of attire. One thing leggings are not is pants. I repeat, LEGGINGS ARE NOT PANTS, ladies. They are a step up from tights, a step or two down from skinny jeans; they are not to be used as the only thing to wear on your lower half!

The Snookie clone spotted the other night was not the sole offender; I’ve seen this become a tendency amongst many, much more refined, and smarter ladies in my crowd. Ones who have demonstrated modesty and class in the past have now started to show us their entire world. Leggings now are thinner, and tighter than they were when I was a child, this might have something to do with the post-puberty addition of hips and bums to our anatomy and the baffling popularity of American Apparel, but in the last 2 weeks I have seen more camel toe than the Sahara and bums seem hungrier than an anorexic. Ladies, we must say “No” to camel toe.

It’s okay ladies, if you are an offender, hope is not lost, we can rebuild you, make you classier, and more modest, fitter, stronger and with less hungry bum and no camel toe.

It’s easy, cover that shit up. Options include, but are not limited to: skirts, dresses, long shirts, wide scarves, superhero underwear and fig leaves. Perhaps consider buying leggings a size up, yes they’re stretchy, but they do come in sizes. Purchase leggings that have a crotch seam that cuts around your lady bits so you don’t get the front wedgie, which really can’t be comfortable, it’s certainly not comfortable as a third party witness.

Now men, I understand sometimes you have urges, a funny feeling “Down There” when you see members of the opposite sex. These urges are perfectly normal, it’s ok to feel your pants shrinking now and again, and suddenly have to think of the guests at your grandma’s 80th birthday party to maintain composure. It is not okay, however, to have this feeling triggered by the front wedgie classlessness of the camel toe female. Ladies like it when they can arouse men, and they continue to exert behavior to incite said reaction, and some don’t understand the allure of an air of mystique. You have a responsibility here too, you must say “No” to camel toe. You must never let it be known that hungry bum and a camel toe are “hot”. These feelings are meant for the privacy of your home and not for the streets of Vancouver, unless you’re on Seymour at 4AM.

Please. We all have a responsibility here; do your part, you must SAY “NO” TO CAMEL TOE.

Gregory Alan Isakov

There's a simple beauty to the sound of Gregory Alan Isakov's This Empty Northern Hemisphere, stating more than just eloquent poetry but creating a masterpiece with warm tones and sweet harmonies. A heartfelt nostalgia in every verse evokes memories of the south, even if you grew up in the east.

As “Dandelion Wine” begins the album I am immediately transported back to the days of summer loves and willow trees, and joyfully remain there until the end.

Technically Isakov’s sophomore album is more complex than The Sea, That Gambler, his 2006 debut album, while still allowing the for universality of straightforward and relatable lyrics, layering harmonies of piano, strings, horns and guitar. Much like Leonard Cohen, whose “One of us cannot be wrong” rounds out the album, individually every one of Isakov’s songs can be a stand-alone poem, all music aside.

“That Moon Song” the third track, haunts listeners with a powerfully subtle harmony from accomplished musician Brandie Carlisle, complementing Gregory’s honey laden vocals and nimbly crafted words like a fine wine. Isakov even wistfully cites his own genre in the reflective tune Evelyn; “theres an old folk song on the radio / sounding thin and dark and haunted” as it transitions into Virginia May, Big Black Car, and the title track, which are indeed just that.

From top to bottom, every chord, every note, and every word speak to you, no matter what your background may be. Heartbreak, love, reflection and home are themes that everyone can associate with collectively, and Isakov assures that you are not alone.

In an era where every man and his dog plays guitar, and every singer-songwriter wants to be Ryan Adams, it's refreshing to be knocked out of my seat by a musician who is as compelling and talented as Isakov. Listening to Northern Hemisphere is like listening to your grandmother’s phonograph, and smiling.

Album is available at www.gregoryalanisakov.com/

-Jus Alexandra Percy

Mosquito Bites

As I lay in bed this morning, way earlier than anticipated for a holiday Friday, I heard my phone vibrate. Bzzzzz.....Bzzzzz....but wait, I could have sworn my phone was on silent, and then I felt it. The familiar sting, and itch of a mosquito bite. The first of the year.

Just as blood thirsty as the bill collectors who wake me from my sleep the mosquitos had descended on me like a plague. Two mosquitos in my 210sqft apartment is like 50 in a house, you'd think they'd get full and leave me alone but no. I was rendered helpless in my half awake state merely batting at the air and moaning "Not the face, Not the Face!!"

I guess I should have expected this. I mean it is April after all. Seasons are changing and just like Fall when it turns to Winter the energy in the air changes. People change, and mother nature is re-born, mosquitos and all.

Thinking about these mosquitos I grew hungry. Not for food, although Theresa's Tofu Scramble is the Nectar of the Gods, but for life.

Being recently and abruptly single catapulted me into a spiral of self flagellation and sadness, I rapidly hit rock bottom in two days, and then had nowhere to go but up.

I came home from work one evening, with a vision in my head, an image I needed to paint, or draw or stencil. Something I hadn't done in a long time. I frantically cleaned my apartment, the urge to create fueling my tidy, then sat down and drew.

I woke up the next morning and showered. Didn't put on any make-up, didn't put on my breast armour (one push up bra with extra padding that weighs about 4 pounds, and a sports bra to keep in all in).

Back to original Jus.

Jus without pretending. Just Jus. 100%.

and I realized we'd been strangers for a long time. We had been so different, long lost pals.

And despite the itching on my face, the mosquito bite awakening, and the groggy sleep still clouding my brain, unable to tell which were the mosquito bites and which were my breasts, I felt amazing.

Springtime mosquitos don't always get welcomed with open arms, but to me this morning, they were a sign of all that has been re-born for me. Recovered from the depths of snow and cold.

I'm back baby, and I'm beautiful.

BAND WANTED!

I Jus, am looking for a band.

Requirements:

-ACTUALLY play something, not just pretend to...
-must like more than just metal.
-need to be chill, and open minded
-good collaborater


Potential Names For Said Band:

"Bedroom Life of Josephine Butler"
"Six Run Creek"
"Mountain Pigeon"
"Lonely Hearts of Ronkswood"
"Court Circular Incest"
"Happy Hour Make Out Squad"
"Stukley's Mutiny"
"Hindenburg Happy Hour Special"
"Juice and the Prep School Bullies"

Discuss.

Just Call Me Donna Reed.

As I woke from my slumber and stumbled out of bed I suddenly got hit with that primal urge to nest, and make the bed. I moved into the kitchen, desperately trying to ignore the 6ft 4inch blond behemoth in his tightie whities obstructing my path, and proceeded to make coffee. I then wiped down the counter and did last nights late night snack dishes that were left out. As I reached for the snack bowl, hands covered in suds, it hit me. I have become domesticated. Am I becoming my father (if you knew my mother you'd understand)? I tried to shake off this realization as I turned on the dishwasher and began moving last nights pasta casserole into tupperware. Maybe I'm not the only one. Maybe this is a right of passage, like your first kiss, and the first guy you punch out, or for those of you with normal childhoods, your first apartment.

Have I been bred for this? After a sufficient amount of wild and reckless dish washing habits, and lack of sweeping and putting food away is there a chemical that triggers me to tame my feral and savage ways?

Finally I pinned it down. It came to one four letter word....

B-R-A-D.

Yes, Brad.

It seems as of late there's a trend that I am now officially a part of. Maybe it's the cold of winter, maybe it's the holidays and family, maybe some beacon went off igniting our collective (if not slightly accelerated) biological clocks, or maybe the flood is coming. Regardless it seems we are pairing up like Noah's Ark.

Brad is my significant other. My main squeeze. The bread to my butter, and all those vomit inducingly cute things to say. I've been staying in his house for the last few days, and have rapidly fallen into a routine of cooking, and cleaning and tidying. I'm waiting for Donna Reed to present me with my string of freshwater pearls for my accomplishments in housewifery. Except that I think she might be dead. Is it a sign of maturity, or neurosis that I vacuum his living room, and clean his sheets. Is it love or just madness.

Maybe I'm becoming my father. The kind of person who cleans up your plate before you've finished your sandwich. Maybe I'm settling in. Maybe I'm just growing up, oh god......

All I know is that if one more dish gets put away dirty, I swear to God, I'll take another vicodin and wash it down with gin. Straighten my pearls, iron my apron, and scrub it till it sparkles again.

And then I'll make a roast.

Ok America....yes, I Love you, but you're weird.

That little cousin you have that likes to pull your toes. Your best friend in High School who started the Star Trek/Lord of the Rings combo LARP club. (live action role play, for those a little less nerdy) Or that dog you grew up with, the one who liked to bring you rocks, instead of sticks, and liked to eat your blue socks.

This is how I feel about America. Specifically, California. I love you, but you're weird.

Being Canadian born and raised and only venturing outside the safe borders of the land of the Maple Leaf one year ago, I had a skewed version of what America would be like. You see, America to me is exactly like the movies. It's Canada, but with a few more issues. It's the intimidating big city where dreams come true. It's the typical small town where your roots always lie. It's magical and terrifying.

Well. America. You are all these things. You are all these things and so much more.

America to me feels like home, especially since Canada has always felt like the little sister to America. Trying hard to be as cool as it, but never quite getting there. So, I love America. I love the way you can have four different climates in one country at one time. I love the skewed cultural ambiguity. I love Football.

I love that little cousin, he's adorable and sweet. I love that friend from high school, he could make me laugh no matter what. I love that old dog, who curled up in my legs to sleep. Regardless of this love there's still the LARPing, the toe pulling and the sock eating to contend with. America is not exempt.

It started at the Bellingham Airport in Washington. I was lucky enough to score a flight to Los Angeles for $38 out of Bellingham, and living in Vancouver it's a quick $25 bus ride out of town. In the Bellingham Airport I was greeted by a Washington State Trooper, who talked to me for at least a half hour about what it's like to be a Trooper (sounds impressive, it really isn't). He kept referring to me as his "Friendly neighbour to the North" and yeah, it's a small town, not a busy airport. I get people telling me boring stories all the time. Maybe it's just me, I attract mind-numbingly boring stories. What got me was that sitting behind him was a sign that read "Dear Passengers, Please be sure that your Firearms are in your CHECKED baggage, not in your carry-on. If firearms are found in your carry-on baggage you will be charged $50 fee and will then be asked to place them in your Checked baggage. Please also be sure that your firearms are not loaded and in a hard shell case. Thank You"

Well. Naturally I felt reassured. That $50 fee is really going to deter people from bringing guns on a plane. Thank goodness for that sign. If however, as a Canadian, I were to fly across the border, I can't even have anything on my lap during the flight.

The mailboxes and newspaper boxes threw me for a loop when I first saw them. Being a film and television technician, I see these mailboxes all the time. Usually when I'm carting one off a set-dec truck. Not so much when I'm actually buying a newspaper or mailing a letter. It just made America feel a little like a movie set to me. On that note: Mail Service on Saturdays? No wonder the Postal Workers of America are pissed.

The grocery store, Walmart, Target, Etc. They have aisles and aisles of liquor. This is not weird. This is just AWESOME.

Bars also open at 6AM in California, this is a booze-hound's dream. Wake-up, go to the bar, drink, go to work, drink, come home, drink, go to the bar, drink, pass out in the alley for a few hours, repeat. Except that the beer here tastes like someone splashed a little beer in a glass of soda water. I seriously have to pee every ten seconds when I drink American beer. I also look like a rockstar when I, a 125lb (er....sure, 125lbs) fairly slight, blonde can down ten beers without blinking an eye, Thank God for adult diapers.

Mmm Also, CHEESE is ridiculously cheap. It's awesome. My father, who spends $100 on cheese a week would feel like he died and went to heaven. Huge wedges of Jarlsberg for $4.50, Parmesan, Asiago, Romano, THREE BUCKS! Old English Extra Aged Cheddar 5 bucks! These are all fairly sizable chunks here too people. I'm talking Chuck E Cheese sizes not Stuart Little.

So, Firearms, cheese, booze, mailboxes.

When I come home, or into someones house, my first instinct is to take off my shoes. Well I was met with looks of shock, disgust, inquiry and mild displeasure when I did this after arriving at my destination. Apparently clean socks on carpets and furnishings are much more disgusting and rude than shoes that have been outdoors walking through the dirty streets of LA and Vancouver. These are shoes that have tread through the drug addicted areas of East Vancouver, through the urine and heroin and spit. Shoes that have walked through mud and remnants of dog feces, maybe human feces, and have tread the alcohol soaked floors of many a night club and bar. This, is okay to have in your house, but god forbid you save the carpets and furnishings and expose your socks! gasp.

Kraft Dinner. The staple of the student and those of us desperately grasping on to student status and milking it for all we can. "What did you have for lunch today baby?" asked my American boyfriend, Brad. "Oh I just whipped up a box of KD. There's some left in the fridge if you want some." I was met with a stare that rivaled the shoes in the house incident mentioned above. "You mean Macaroni and Cheese?" he replied. KD. KD is not Macaroni and cheese. I mean, yes, technically it is, but Macaroni and cheese implies nutrition and effort and a crispy cheesy top, maybe a cracker crust bottom, and 20 mins baking at 350 degrees. KD is the closest thing to cardboard the FDA will approve as edible. Soooo not Macaroni and Cheese. Plus, it tastes different, KD feels like it has more artificial flavour, something that "Kraft Mac and Cheese Dinner" is seriously lacking.

My spell check is currently fighting me and pissing me off with these underlined red words. Flavour, Neighbour, Colour. Yeah. With a U. Deal with it Spell Check!

Ketchup Chips. The greatest invention in the snack food world. Non existent in America. Which is weird, because they're made by Lay's, both countries have Lay's chips, so why wouldn't both countries have Ketchup Chips. So tragic for the Americans.

I also had a heck of a time trying to convince Brad that Smarties were:
A)Not a compressed sugar snack known to Canadians as "Rockets"
B)Not the same as M&Ms. They taste nothing alike.
So I brought him some, "These taste like M&Ms." GAH!

You know. America, you're awesome, with your trash TV. Your Pinkberry Fro-yo. Your random celebrities on the street. You're great. You have NFL and gigantic freeways. Apparently you also have handsome men. America, you and me, we're bros. I love you, but you're weird.

Oh yeah, don't even get me started on Fahrenheit and the Imperial system....we'll be here for days.