Success!

I’m pleased to announce that the party went off without a hitch. Instead of TVs falling over, mirrors being smashed and bottles being tossed out the window onto the passing dumpster divers below (all accidental of course), everyone was more than well behaved. In fact, the lack of drama was a bit disturbing. Have we all become such adults?

But as far as flatwarming parties/high school/university reunions go it was a lot of fun. I’m not sure how many people we had crammed in there at once (anyone have an estimate?) since a lot of you were going up to the deck. But it never felt TOO crowded. And China did an amazing job with the fireworks. I’m surprised no one had the gall to actually watch them from inside the pool (although Jace was more interested in going out-of-bounds to the roof).

I have a feeling that the deck got the brunt of the damage as my humble abode escaped anything major. There were lots of spills though, so thank God for hardwood floors. And my place did/does reek of stale brahma beer and mojitos. But the magic clean-up fairies did such a good job of putting all the empties away. Of course, one doesn’t have a party without finding random things the next morning…high school photographs in the weirdest of places, Tupperware containers of sugar, crazy doodles, tubs of hummus with pistachio shells in it, gigantic jugs of beer in the closet, 50 different types of downloading software on my computer, plastic cups with ineligible names written on them and my retired neighbour’s Rolling Stone CD (who by the way, was not the one-dimensional chap who was propped up in the corner).

But anyhoo, thank you all for coming, I hope you had fun and we should do this again real soon. And shame on those who didn’t come (and no, going away on vacation with your family is not a legitimate excuse).

The sky lights up over English Bay

Laws of Physics be Damned!

All right, I have a mild dilemma...This is my "living room":
This is my "kitchen":
And this is my bedroom:

The problem is as follows...how am I going to fit 20 people into a 435 square foot studio apartment? Standing room only, I suppose...btw, if anyone has any folding chairs, be a doll and bring them. Otherwise some of you are going to be sitting on the toilet.
Speaking of, I only have one. So if one of you wants to bring a porta potty as well, be my guest.

Beware of Flying Objects

Since I now live near a beach, I decided it was probably in my best interest to actually go to the beach.

So Sunday, I packed up a beach bag and headed down Davie and met up with Austen, his friend with a name I can pronounce but not spell and some ESL students. Their idea was to play some ultimate frisbee. I was ready for a game of ultimate nothing.

The beach was crowded as hell with it being Sunday and all, with clear skies and oven-like tempatures, although there was a breeze whipping up the waves and thus whipping up any objects that might be sailing through the air.
See, I have a particular fear. It's going to sound bad, but I'm going to say it anyway. I have a fear of balls.

OK, that did sound bad. I should rephrase that. I have a fear of flying objects...because somehow, no matter who is throwing them, they always end up hitting me in the face. And it's not just balls either. Birds sometimes dive-bomb me, and frisbees are attracted to me like a magnet. Which is why I was a bit apprehensive about playing ultimate frisbee.
Austen braves the surf

Being a good sport though, I played a few rounds until Austen's throw nearly took my hand out. Perhaps I was safer lying on the sand and taking sun. Only I wasn't. While the frisbee sailed past me at lightening speed, the wind would take it and wing it at my head. My poor hands had to defend myself from the onslaught time and time again. As if that wasn't enough to worry about, some Croatian man and his young son decided to play soccer in the middle of the frisbee game and everytime the ball would get kicked onto someone's oiled-back or picnic lunch, he would laugh maniacally. Then young shirtless hotshots decided the place beside me was perfect for a game of tossing the ol' pigskin around. I don't know if hurtling footballs at girl's heads is some guy's ways of picking them up or what, but let me tell you...it doesn't work.

There's fear behind those sunglasses

The breaking point was when the Croatian man brought out his football and decided to receive the catch by standing right in front of me. And, let me tell you, eight-year old boys do NOT know how to throw a football. After the umptienth bad throw nearly took my sunglasses out, I decided it was time to go.

Of course the wind still had it in for me. Snapping pics of the waves and people as I walked along the seawall, I was unaware of a series of gigantic swells heading my way. Suffice to say I felt like I went swimming that day, without even stepping foot in the ocean.

Apres surf drinks at Moxies with Amanda, Austen and sea-swept hair

What's your style?

Today was hot hot hot. So, whats the best cure for hot hot heat? Sitting by the pool with an ice cold beer, of course.
Only, that's not what we did. Far be it for us to be THAT reasonable. Instead we decided to go shopping. During the middle of the day. In 35 degree weather. Walking. Outside.
Turns out it wasn't all that bad. From my house we walked down Davie to Thurlow to Robson, down Robson, onto Denman and down Denman and turned onto Davie. A two-hour circle that yielded no shopping, whatsoever. Because, in order for it to constitute shopping, you have to buy something, right?
Well, I did try on a pair of jeans (BAD idea in sweaty weather). But, poor stylish Ross couldn't find a single shirt to satisfy his taste. Not that I can blame him, Robson is pretty bland for men's clothing and Ross's own style is pretty original (fedora's, anyone?). However, the gay stores we tried were TOO original. Especially those Speedos. Just not his style.
Then I got to thinking about "my style". Those of you who know me (and are women) often see stuff in shops and go "oh that is such a Karina shirt." Easy to regonize, but harder to explain. After all, what is my style? I like what I like. I think I gravitate towards more pretty/romantic things, than sexy things (though 6 years ago it would have been the reverse). But at the same time, you'll rarely catch me out of jeans, which amps up the casual.
Except for today. Because it was so freakin hot I wore one of my skirts I got in Norway which I wore all last summer because it was so freakin' hot in Europe.
So, I asked Ross, "How would you describe my style in general?"
Ross, "Um, part hippie..."
I never heard the other part because I was still stuck on the first one. Part hippie? Me? Excuse me? I am so not granola.
"Yeah, because you wear those long skirts and big earrings..." he trailed off.
"I never wear long skirts"
"You are wearing one now"
Yeah...for the first time this year. The moral of the story is, maybe your style is whatever you are wearing right now. Which isn't anything close to hippie-ish.

The above documents the closest thing to me ever resembling a hippie

Por Que No?

The above photo is from La Alberca, from the wee trip I took to Spain in April. Seems like ages ago in some ways, and like it was just yesterday in others.
The first visitor from Spain arrived in Vancouver the other day. Good ol' Tomas and his lovely girlfriend are vacationing over here, enjoying Vancouver, Whistler, Victoria, Banff and Jasper. Luckily for them, the weather has been fantastic, with a high of 36C over this weekend. And despite wandering down to Main and Hastings by accident (where their guidebook said was a big NO), the city has rubbed off on them.
Ross and I met up with them last night at Milestones, overlooking English Bay. You couldn't have asked for a more wonderful spot. It was a lot of "More or Less" and other Spanish idioms, as well as a rehashing of La Alberca (ahhh, jugs of wine at lunch, I miss those days). And it made me realize that Spain is a place I still must return to and it still has a special place in my heart. And despite my busy schedule, I still want to learn Spanish. Next year, next year...and maybe we'll do La Alberca again. I miss all you crazy Spaniards!

All in a day's work

Sometimes I only have to leave the office to realize I don't have the typical job. I was just sent to get the mail. Along the way I was able to peek into Mark Wahlberg's trailer. I also saw a dog dressed in a racoon suit. They were training him to walk like a racoon...I watched this for a few moments with a security guard who found it all too amusing. The other day, a loud explosion rocked our offices and the building shook for a few seconds. I thought it was an earthquake. Turns out they were blowing up Vampires for the TV series Blade in the studio next door.
I know when I first got the job, I was asked if I could call up George Clooney's manager. Well, that hasn't happened yet, but here are some folks I contacted today:
-Halle Berry
-Benicio Del Toro
-Patricia Clarkson
-Rachel McAdams
and, of course, Mark Wahlberg.
This week I also have to ring up Pierce Brosnan, Chris Cooper, David Duchovny, Sam Mendes, Quentin Tarantino, Kevin Smith and Joshua Jackson.
And to think I used to get nervous just calling up the pizza place.

The only thing that is certain in life.....

.....is that nothing is certain. We all think sometimes that we have life figured out, that we take things for granted and can see what's down the line. But we can't. We can't even come close.
A friend of mine asked me a while back about her boyfriend, who she has been with for a while.
"I don't know if he is 'the one.' Do we ever really know if he is the one?"
I know there are some smug couples out there who would love to jump up and say, "Yes, I know it. He is the one. We are meant to be. We are proof of that."
How is being with him at this moment, proof of anything? All it proves is that you aren't dead yet. You may have something true and solid right now, but what happens tomorrow when he wakes up and realizes he doesn't love you anymore? When you take a job overseas? When one day you screw up bigtime over something stupid and never get what you had back? The truth is, we can never know anything. We can't see down the line to the future. Not to next year, to next month or to the next minute. I could drop dead while writing this blog for all I know (and I know that might please one or two of you).
If life is a series of events, that bring us to this moment, to right now...then there is no saying where we are going tomorrow. I don't know if I will still have a boyfriend. I don't know if I will still have a job. I don't know that my apartment isn't going to burn down, that my parents won't get divorced, that my dog wont die, that I wont get sick. I don't know any of this and neither do you.
And that's life. It sucks sometimes. It's human nature to want to know what is going to happen next. We are all curious, answer-seeking people who want to take comfort in knowing what the future will bring them. Why do you think we go to psychics, or church or take quizzes on the web called "Is your relationship meant to last?" We all want to believe that everything will be all right.
And everything will be all right, as long as you accept that your life and everything you hold dear could change at any given moment and all that you take for granted can be swept out from under you. Accept it, take a leap of faith and just believe that at this moment you are exactly where you are meant to be. For better or for worse.
The only thing that we know is that we don't know anything.
But then, what do I know?

A Never Ending Story

This is obviously a story that's not going away anytime soon. And what's most interesting about it is the fact that, well, it keeps getting interesting.
Apparently, now Materazzi is being investigated as well, for provoking the attack. It's obvious that there is a lot more to this situation than what meets the eye, as there usually is in these types of things. And from the emails I have gotten from my football mad friends worldwide, I can tell that this touches a nerve. A lot of people are divided on who is the villiain in this sitiuation, as nothing is ever just black and white.
Originally, the world (and I) scratched it's head at what could have set Zidane off to just headbutt Materazzi out of the blue like that. Such a shocking act, that was seemingly unjustified.
Then the rumours started flying. There seemed to be actual reason to his actions, although the specifics are still kept quiet. Fifa officials know what was said, Zidane's lawyer knows what was said, as do the two players, obviously. It was smart of Zidane to keep the specifics of the comments to himself, as he did in a press conference in which he apologized for his actions. He doesn't regret what he did, as he sees that the action will lead him down the path he is supposed to go down. I must say, after seeing such an enraged man slam his head into the Italian, knocking him to the ground, I was quite surprised to see how calm, collected and humble Zidane was in the press conference. Admitting what he did was wrong but acknowledging it was something that needed to be done.
Of course, we still don't know what exactly was said. Everything from dirty terrorists, to calling your mother or sister a whore...all which are designed to get a reaction.
And since Materazzi is now being investigated, it seems obvious that whatever he said was more than uncalled for. I can understand Zidane being villainized as a footballer with a short temper and no disregard for his actions, had Materazzi not said anything, which was my orginal inkling. But since Materazzi went after Zidane, looking for a reaction (which he got in spades), it's more apparent that there are two guilty parties here. Did Materazzi say such things, knowing that it would get a rise out of Zidane? Obviously, with those comments, especially to an Algerian immigrant with a close family, you would expect to get a reaction. So, did Materzzai do it, knowing (or hoping) Zidane would react and thus would get red carded, if not yellow-carded? Is that how Italy won the cup? Since the game was so close, and Italy still didnt dominate until the pentaly shots (in which Zidane is genius at), it's a tough call. It's just a shame that something that should just be about the game, has come down to insults and actions. But I guess it shows we are just humans after all, and somethings matter more than just a football game.

BTW I've been told I should name my car Zizou, as "it would show that your car is prepared to take no crap from anyone who may get in the way."

Blast from the Past: Part Two - NOW

This is Blair and Meag. We all used to live together on residence in New Zealand...well, actually Blair wasn't my roomate but he was over everyday eating all of our food and Meffin's Power Wheaties or something. But Meag was my roomate for a good few months...figures that I move to another country and I find 2 sisters (Meag and Brie) from Victoria living with me.
It's been 3 years since I saw them all last and while people do change (except for you Blair, you look exactly the same), we all settled back into our roles...Blair smacked me on my head, I refused to sing karaoke and Meag tried to get us into Celebrities by putting on a veil and pretending it was her Stagette party. Not that she's done that before, but in Auckland she wouldn't shy about climbing into a club's 2nd story window to bypass the line...it worked too. Or it got us kicked out. Somethings don't change.
Blair is visiting from NZ for Bries wedding this weekend..she and her fiance, Jay, were also my roomates in NZ, so it's kind of cool that everything is coming full circle. We even met up with Jeremy who also hung out a lot in our Auckland apartment. And the creepiest part? Meag lives exactly one block from my new apartment, on the same street. So it looks like we are neighbours once again. And this time next week, I don't have to pass out on her couch after a Tuesday Boozeday...my own couch will be a one minute walk away.

















funny faces
meag







blair





jeremy





moi







































The AUT gang ends on a drunk note



































SHHHHH! I'm trying to sleep

Blast from the Past: Part One

This week it seems like everyone from my past seems to be crawling out of the woodwork. Pictured above is my good friend Amanda N. I don't know why I still call her Amanda N., since we are no longer in Catholic school (OLPH or Old Ladies Pool House as we liked to call it), where there was an Amanda N. and an Amanda K. Although, Amanda K. works at Las Margaritas on 4th...so, there is a chance that we all might be in the same room together and I would have bring out the intials to tell them apart.

I've known Amanda N. for about 20 years or so, and as you can see with my brilliant montage, we've changed alot over the years. We look older and a little bit smarter (although I think I looked pretty cool in my punk phase...does it count as a phase if it lasted 5 years?). But besides us growing into two charming young women, we've also changed a lot in our personal lives. She has two lovely kids and is engaged....I don't have either. But I do have a job that is slowly growing on me (very slowly) and my own column which was just launched on our webpage today....Hallewood Beat. Yes, I have always thought that Halle and Hollywood would one day meet...just not this way. But hey, I'm not complaining. The point is, looking back, neither one of us would have guessed that we would end up the way we are...but that's life I guess. A series of twists and turns, just windy enough to keep you guessing.

The Fine Art of Losing Your Cool

So, despite being tucked away on the boat this weekend, I still managed to catch the World Cup Final on Sunday....of course, we all favoured Italy, because, hey who favours the French? (I'm just kidding, Olivier, Xavio and Arnaud and all you other Frenchies out there!)

Piled into the Yacht Club's outstation caretaker's house, we had beer (at 10:30 AM, perhaps it was a little early for that), hot-dogs and various footy fare and sat down to watch what turned out to be an exciting match. No, I didn't think going to a shoot-out was perhaps the best way to end the final, and I did think that with Zidane and Henry out, Italy should have easily scored during that last bit. But you got to give credit to France for putting up a good fight. Who you can't give credit to is Zidane....

His headbutt was not only shocking but unjustified. Only, of course, like anything, there was some "justification": The Paris-based anti-racism advocacy group SOS-Racism issued a statement Monday quoting "several very well informed sources from the world of football" as saying Materazzi called Zidane a "dirty terrorist." Now let's say that Materazzi did say those words to Zidane...can you justify what Zidane did?

"Zidane is someone who reacts to things," said Aime Jacquet, Zidane's coach at the 1998 World Cup. "Unfortunately he could not control himself. It's terrible to see him leave this way."

With the whole world watching, how could Zidane think he could get away with it? Maybe because it was his last game and he figured he could go out with a bang...as they say, bad press is good press. But, sheesh, try going out with some dignity...maybe he wants everyone to hate him.
Now, I've had the misfortune of losing my cool and doing some pretty stupid things - I do know of the point where all you can see is blind rage and you drive down the road screaming at the top of your lungs, or say things you don't mean to say. So, it's not to say I don't understand. But isn't civilty what seperates us from the animals? And can losing your cool ever really be a fair excuse? I don't think it's a good excuse for me when I blow a gasket...understandable perhaps, but dissapointing at the same time. We should be better than that.

It's a tricky subject and something that's been on my mind as of late. What's most annoying is the fact that Zidane is staying mum on the subject and won't give anyone any clue of what drove him to such a childish act. Maybe somethings can't be figured out...or aren't meant to be.

Here’s to Miss "Not-So Anonymous"

I raise my drink to you. Your childish, inarticulate and immature comments on the blogs have caused quite an exciting stir. I guess you figured in that naïve, uneducated brain of yours that by posting anonymously on people’s blogs, you could hide behind your computer screen, too afraid and insecure to come out and say something. Not that anything you have to say would make any sense at all. You are obviously not only insanely jealous and a compulsive liar, but must be absolutely psycho to attack someone you haven’t even met, let alone know. But we know who you are.

See, when people do as you have done, they aren’t really so “Anonymous” after all. People like you are quite easy to find out. You are probably one of those girls who live in a small, redneck town that has a permanent stink cloud over it. Going nowhere with your life, you waste your days working part-time jobs, probably aiming for a shallow career such as modelling (or porn), not realizing that you have to be beautiful not only on the outside but on the inside too. Which would explain why you’ll most likely go nowhere…a Plain Jane on the outside (airbrushing is your best friend) and an ugly mess on the inside. You also seem like the type who is so desperate that you can’t get a proper man, that you would give your number out left and right to anyone in front of you.

And if that doesn’t work, you would probably go after another woman’s boyfriend, thinking you have a chance. Unfortunately for you, you are also so deluded that you can’t see that you will fail miserably…and will have to admit defeat. Cuz he knows exactly what kind of a person you are. A blow to the ego, perhaps. But it’s an ego that’s way to big for your body anyway.

So cheers to you Miss “Not-So Anonymous.” Thanks for providing some entertainment for me and my friends. With the Internet, you can do some pretty cool things...
P.S., I think you seriously should consider getting some professional help to help you deal with the shitload of issues that you have…and I don’t mean calling in to a radio talk show. 

Little Escapes

Although this picture looks like it was taken sometime in the late 70's/early 80's, I can assure you it was taken this weekend. At a place that feels like a bit of a time warp itself: Salt Spring Island. I was even eating a Wild Rose Gelato...which was gelato made out of roses (something hippies would have eaten in the 70's). Now, I've never eaten a rose before, so I didn't know what to expect, but it tastes like it smells. Maybe more like how rose-soap would smell. And tasted curiously good. Not that I've eaten soap...except that time I taught my friend a swear word (no wait, that was A Christmas Story).
Anyhoo, I know I just blogged about Salt Spring, but working and going to SS is all I have been doing for the last few weeks...and I'm happy with it. In fact, I'm going back here AGAIN this friday. And I don't think I'm getting sick of it anytime soon.
You see, I'm having some trouble getting used to working 9-5 (well 10-6 for me)...I never thought I would be in an office job (in fact, I looked down on them in disdain)... and even though this isn't your typical office job (interviewing Quentin "F" Tarantino doesn't come easily), I am still in an office for most of the day. So, most of the week, I am not doing the things I would rather be doing (ie, hanging out, doing nothing) and thus I feel stifled.
So how can I get more out of my life, trying to balance having one with going to work? Well, routine is one thing. And moving downtown (2 weeks baby!) is another...my commute will be cut in half and I'll actually be in the state of mind to get out and do something.
But until then, I'm going to keep getting on that ferry and sailing off into the wild blue yonder. Cuz a well-used weekend can do wonders for the rest of your work week.

New Beginnings

Aaaaaah, who feels old now? This is me, last night, at Boston Pizza. After several drinks, I decided to tackle a heap of legal documents that were thicker than the bible. I already signed the mortgage papers last week, but these papers were the official "I OWN PROPERTY" papers....thankfully I had Austen there to make sure I didn't sign my soul to the Devil or anything like that (after a few glasses of wine and the most intensely spicy ceaser ever, I think I started signing the menu).
Nonetheless, now I am officially a homeowner. And in less than 3 weeks I will begin the new chapter in my life: living downtown. Which will hopefully bring some much coveted change to my life as I know it....

"Out of the darkness and into the sun
But I won't forget all the ones that I loved
I'll take a risk, take a chance, make a change
And breakaway" 

Goodbye Tank, Hello Fill-in-Blank

This is me...and my new car "Fill-in-the-Blank". Yes, that's right, I have a new car. It's a spiffy, red Neon that's perfect for zipping in and out of traffic and for parallel parking (which I'll be doing plenty of once I move downtown, and I'm real crap at it too). But the best part is that I think it's a car that suits my personality: It's bright and shiny (like my face on a hot summer day), it's red (the color I turn when I'm in traffic...and also my face on a hot summer day) and it smells nice (as do I, when it's not a hot summer day).
Unlike The Tank....





This a picture of Leanne and The Tank on "one" of the fateful days that The Tank broke down. At school of all places. I was driving down the hill when the brakes failed...and then the steering locked...and it looked like I was going to die. Thankfully I was able to sweep the car into the parking lot and run it into a parking space (and when I mean run, I mean only the concrete pillar at the end stopped me). Nonetheless, I still managed to pay for parking and go to class, calling the tow truck afterwards. My car ended up getting $1400 worth of repairs on problems I (and probably it) never knew it had.
Of course, that wasnt the first problem I had with The Tank. The CD player never worked properly and when a song skipped, you were stuck with it forever. At one point the mufflers nearly fell off. Weeks later, my wheels were declared unsafe for the road (not my$1000 snow tires, those are golden...btw, anyone want to buy them?). Then the growly noises started. Then I ran out of gas on the Coquihalla. Then I ran out of gas while parked overnight at Ross and Jeff's (how does that happen?).
Needless to say, the tank was fussy, loud, unreliable, large, moody and couldn't hold a tune. Much like me. Hmmmmm.

PS My new car needs a new name! Any suggestions? So far, I have a friend (you know who you are) telling me I should break the last N off of NEON and call it "Neo"...

The Cambie...

is always a fun time, no matter what. Even though the line-up is a mile-long at 10pm...even though people like to lock you outside...even though everytime you go to the woman's bathroom you overhear drunken, Stephen Harper bashes/Jean Chretien adorations. Tis a good mix.







Robyn and I, well on our way to get wasted

Ross and Jeff, well on their way to getting wasted

And Lauren's playing catch-up too

Tsawwassen is hard to spell...

and it can be beautiful...



















as these pictures of Boundary Bay attest...

...that said, I am glad I'm leaving. (Can't you see it on my face?)

At the mental institution, where I belong

Yes, it’s true. Last night I was finally admitted to the mental institution, a place I should have gone to a long time ago.

OK, well there was another reason that I was going… I had my first “interview” for my job at the Indie Film Alliance. Now, so far, I have done an interview with an established producer, Dennis Fallon, who is shooting his first feature as director out in Kansas City, MO. You can read the interview here: Fallon Article
But that interview was done over the phone, something my jangling nerves could handle.

That wasn’t the case last night. I wrangled an interview with William B. Davis (AKA Cancerman/Cigarette Smoking Man for all you X-files fans) and was to pop down to the set of Matthew Perry’s new film “Numb” which was shooting out at Riverview MENTAL hospital out in Coquitlam. I was to come by sometime between 6 and 11pm and there was a chance I could meet Matthew Perry as well.

AHHHH. So, I freaked out. I get nervy about these kinda things. I used to get nervous just interviewing the local crappy “politicians” in Kamloops. And now this was an actual actor on an actual set. Yeah, I know I work at a film set, but this was different somehow. For one it was at a mental institution. Maybe I would finally get the help I needed.

So I raced home, got extra batteries for my mp3 voice recorder and camera then raced out to Coquitlam. Then took the wrong highway and ended up in ArmPitt Meadows or something, in the pouring rain. So, after a few U-turns and frantic phone calls to my parents asking where the mental institution was (which reminds me, I should phone them back and let them know I actually wasn’t committing myself), I found the place.

Then the fun began. Driving in the rain, around a creepy, sprawling mental institution, as the sky grew colder and darker by the minute. Finally I just phoned Bill (Yes, I call him Bill now) and he let me know I was on the right track. I found a few trailers and then Trevor, the 3rd…which I assume was the 3rd AD.

The door to a lux trailer swung open and there stood Cancerman, looking happy to see me, for some reason. I stepped into his trailer, sat beside him on his comfy leather sofa and started to awkwardly ask questions (I say awkwardly cuz I feel awkward when I find myself in celebrity’s movie set trailers). But he put me at ease right away. An easy going guy, not at all like the Alien-loving, CIA/FBI-manipulating, Mulder-hating Cancerman from the show. For one, he wasn’t smoking. And for another, he had the demeanor of someone’s highly intelligent and life-loving Grandpa. After I figured out that he wasn’t going to get his alien cronnies to off me, the interview went better than I expected (ei, I didn’t fuck up).

I left a half hour later after he got called to hair and makeup and I snapped a few pics of him getting ready for his upcoming scene with Perry (he plays Perry’s happy-go-lucky father). In the end, I didn’t actually get to see Matthew Perry, but I’m sure that can be arranged. I think one actor interview a day is all I can handle. Anymore than that and I think I would have to be committed after all.

Homeowner, Moi

------The wonderful view of English Bay from the pool/roof deck of MY new West End, Downtown Vancouver apartment------


What you say? Apartment? I thought you were moving to Kerrisdale in an old ladies garden? Ah, yes...that. Well, lets just say what a strange turn of events this week has been. First a job and now a home of my own. It's been a real rollercoaster though, and nothing is as easy as it seems.
But yes. Back to this homeowner thing.
Friday was my first deadline rush at work. I had a million things going on at once. Then my mom phones. She says "I bought you an apartment"....I say, "Uh huh, I'm busy." I hung up the phone and went back to panicking about my work.
As I walked to my car, after staying a half hour overtime, I remembered my mom calling. I called her back. Didn't she say something about an apartment?
Apparently, she was flipping through the newspaper and came across an ad for a studio apartment in the West End of Vancouver. The price was unbelievable. She called up the real estate agent and demanded to see it, even though the open house was on sunday.
To make a long story short, she loved it and put in an offer.
*************************************
Saturday rolls around. The real estate agent phones. Acting as our buyer, she informs us that another apartment in the building has just become available, a one-bedroom only for 17,000$ more. We get excited. A studio is great but a one-bedroom is even better. And we can see both apartment's tommorow. I'm so taken aback by all these developments, that only after slamming back a few ceasers at Scruffy's in New West, does it all hit me. I might just be a homeowner. Then we start arguing about Israel, Palestine and WMDs and I forget all about the apartment.
**************************************
Sunday greets us with groans. Nursing a massive hangover, I wrangle Ross into accompanying me to the open house.
I park on Pacific Avenue and notice the beach is steps away, framed by a grove of suspicious palm trees. We walk up the hill two blocks and turn on to Burnaby Street. Busy Burrard Street is a few blocks East. Happening Davie Street is one block North. And in front of us is the building, recently white-washed and looking clean. While waiting for my parents to show up, we learn we aren't alone. There are Russians interested in the apartment...a group of gay men....a young couple...I feel like fighting them all off and yelling "IT'S MINE!" It doesn't help that all of us nearly get stuck in the elevator together.
But the apartment is nice...me likey...it's small, of course, a 430 sq. foot bachelor, but the way its laid out makes it livable. It has hardwood floors, bright walls, open windows, new counters and a really cool vintage phone that I'm hoping is included in the price.
Then we are wisked upstairs to the other apartment de jour. It's also nice, much bigger obviously since its more than one room. But it seems darker somehow. And Ross points out theres no way he could fit in the shower...unless its some sort of glorified nipple washer.
Then we go to the roof. Oh my God. The roof. There is a pool...some palm trees and fancy chairs. And a view that stretches forever. Surreal. Forget the apartment, I'll just live up there.
But we don't forget the apartment, and despite some shifty Chinese real estate agent thats hanging around listening, my parents make their 2nd offer in as many days, this one for the one-bedroom, while still having the studio by default. It looks certain.
A few hours later I get a call from my mother. The shifty real estate agent had heard (eavesdropped) our offer, went to his client and bid ELEVEN THOUSAND MORE than what we offered, which was the asking price. There goes the one bedroom. I spend the evening knocking back pitchers of beer at The Cambie and trying to forget the shaky situation I'm in. One minute it looked like we had everything. Now it looks like we might walk away with nothing but just a taste of what could have been. Bring on the beer.
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After the 6th pitcher my mother calls back. The one-bedroom is gone. The studio is mine.
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My mother calls me today while I'm driving (more like racing) home after work. The studio going in my name. I'm getting a mortgage too, co-signed by my Dad. I'm going to be a property owner, a homeowner. The real esatet agent just left my house after having us sign the papers.
I wonder when it's going to hit me that this is kind of a big deal.

I'm in the movies, I'm in the movies....

This, my friends, is where I work. Yes, that's right. I got the job at Lions Gate Studios. Why and how? That I can not say. Dumb, blind luck I suppose. Only I don't believe in luck...I believe we make our own luck. And perhaps in this case, maybe I made my own luck by working hard and being persistant....and charming, bien sur. Plus, the hell I went through with A. Bass's Online Journalism and my years toying with the film industry must have counted for something.
So when did this all happen? Well, I got a second interview on the Monday. The Producer had left a message on my phone, telling me I was "awesome." Now, there is no doubt that I am awesome, but to hear someone else say it was quite something indeed. So I went in for the interview, shaking in my boots, and "looking" smart in a sleek, black business suit (courtesy of Rosco's stylistic opinion). The Producer twisted his computer around and asked if I could upload box office information from IMDB on to the website. I nodded, slightly confused...what exactly was this job again?
Then he asked if I was available. I told him immediately.
"Immediately as in today?" he asked.
I really had nothing planned, so I found myself saying "YES!"
So he sent me away to the nearby Starbucks so I could get something to eat and a coffee. He would call me in a bit and we could get started. I walked out of the office, even more confused. Did I just get a job? Why was that so easy?
Wandering aimlessly through the lot, I ran into Leif, an old high school friend of mine. He's doing stunt work for The 44oo.
"Do you work here?" Leif asked.
"I think so," was my reply.
Half and hour later, after drinking another much needed coffee, The Producer called me back. My first week of work was about to begin.

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My first week of work is now officially over. I am exhausted. Driving from Tswwassen to North Van everyday is no peice of cake. Especially when I am extremely adept and picking streets in which every single pedestrian crossing gets used. Thankfully, the drive from rosco's in New West sometimes takes only a half an hour, so its nice bonus when I stay over. But from Tsawwasen? Holy Crapolla! Over an hour, plus I have to deal with the Massey Tunnel, the Knight Street Bridge and the Second Narrows Bridge. On the plus side, I do feel very businessy having to commute while listening to the Bill Good show at the same time.
So what have I learned during this first week? Being a reporter is hard work...writing under deadline makes me want to pull my hair out...dealing with Dr. Q-tip and other crazy sponsors makes me swear like a sailor....Interviewing film directors can be fun....and having gourmet coffee at the office is like a tonic to the system.
Plus I also learned what my job title is: Director of Media Relations.
How's that for a girl who still hasn't officially graduated yet?


Director of Media Relations, at your service