winnipeg is a boiling pot of cranberries.

My hair may look unwashed & untousled in this picture, and I may be hiding the food in my mouth with my hand instead of a big giant smile, but I must say that my first trip back to Winnipeg was a successful one. The first day back really set the tone for the trip; breakfast at the nook with some ladyfriends, my brother, and his ladyfriend followed by a bottle of B&B in Richardson park while sprawled out on a picnic-quilt, followed by mid-afternoon homemade wine & a gigantic joint at the 70's mixing bowl coloured apartment of some dear friends. Typical Winnipeg.




Luckily I escaped all my family's neuroses and craziness on Real Christmas by staying put in Toronto and celebrating with some newfound friends instead. I discovered that Santa really isn't real because all of my presents seemed to have appeared under my mom's tree in Winnipeg. That, or he got confused and thought I still lived there because I still have a Manitoba Driver's License. Santa, or mom & pop, really spoiled a girl this year. My suitcase is coming back much heavier and not just because of all the Value Village finds and Winnipeg beer I'm carting back for friends (....myself). Shout out to my dad for the new MacBook, my mom for the my wallet full of heavy cash, and my brother for the beautiful coffee table book on Polaroids. You guys rule.



And a clear & loud shout out to all the friends that called me, surprised me, made time for me, bought me drinks, gave me kisses, complimented my hair, had breakfast with me, and generally celebrated my first return home to the city. I forgot that I missed you so much. I don't think I'll be pulling a Homer Simpson & coming back to Winnipeg anytime soon, so it was good to see all of you. Much love. I'll be listening to the Venetian Snare's concept album about my hometown on repeat for the next few days, but maybe skipping over track #5, "Die Winnipeg Die Die Die Fuckers Die". I can't have nobody talkin' shit about my boyfriend.

one great city.

Typical Winnipeg.



The apartment was too hot to wear all of our clothes, but not hot enough for Stefan to take his long-johns off.

passion play (half-assed).

My friend Allan Lorde on asses. Homie appreciates fat in all forms than anyone I know & I think that's golden.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

oh me, oh my (dreams in my arms)

I forgot how nice it is to wake up next to someone I actually like, tangled up in limbs instead of tangled up in blue.

holy calamity (bear witness).

There are very few things I have in combination with bears; we both eat a fairly varied diet consisting of both plants & animals, we both have short, stocky legs, our courtship period is usually quite brief and there's always the shaggy hair. As of yesterday, I've got something new in common with Jellystone Park's finest. After Toronto's first (and hopefully only) big blizzard of the year on Friday, I have decided to hibernate until spring thaw. Thankfully, my gentleman-friend feels the same way.

Last night, we watched a marathon of 'House Party' on the Comedy Network- just enough Winnipeg to last me until I touch down in my hometown on Friday. Tonight, a late night at work didn't leave me enough energy to attend the Hannukah party I half planned on making the trek out to Thornhill for (an area more populous with Jews than Tuxedo- even their Sobey's is kosher), so I watched Law & Order in an oversized, overworn Notorious BIG tee instead and with it being midnight now, I hope to be asleep before 12:30.




Nothing could rouse me from my ambient state, except my new favourite breakfast spot west of the Nook: Saving Grace. I considered calling in brunch instead of calling in sick so I wouldn't have to rush my dark roast or his french toast with caramelized bananas this morning, but I could just imagine it.

"Sorry, boss! I've got to call in brunch. I'm afraid everyone in the neighborhood has it." You know, kind of like syphillus. Or an ironic moustache.

Photo credit to my friend Ren. You think he's checking his iPhone for text messages, but really he's taking pictures of strangers enjoying a morning-to-mid-afternoon of avocado, tomato, bacon & arugula on whole wheat while looking lazily into the eyes of their sweetheart from across the formica.

all's quiet on the inner city front.

The idea of a drunk blog post is in fact NOT as endearing as I thought the idea was last night. Good thing I recently learned how to delete blog entries. I know one of the approximate three people that read my blog has an iPhone and probably already saw it, but he also saw me in the state that led me to believe that a drunk blog post was a good idea so he doesn't count. I think the rest of you who read it are probably too poor, or too from Winnipeg, to own an iPhone. And that's a-ok.




What IS great is listening to Bruce Cockburn in bed all morning, especially with a big mug of Kicking Horse dark roast in your greedy little handss. I've gone into hibernation & thats a-ok too. There's more than enough heartland canadian folk music around to last me a lifetime, or at least a short Toronto winter.

what a wonderful thing love is.

I'm always confused when someone calls me by the wrong name. Not to sound self-centered or anything, but I thought that my follicles having a good three inches around on most of those around me would really give me some leverage. At the birthday party of a complete stranger on Saturday, a guy named Al I met in the kitchen on my way in insisted on calling me Lois instead of Lauren.

I'm still hoping he was going more for Lois Collier (b-movie heroine extraordinnaire) than Lois Griffin.

At work, there are two Laurens. Sales-lady Lauren (me) and stock-room Lauren (her). Come to think of it, she may be one of the only people I know personally whose hair may be wilder than mine. Working in the stock room and mostly out of the view of the general public and the Whole Foods Market recyclable bag toting, judgemental eyes of the Yorkville yuppies who frequent their local Williams-Sonoma, she is not restricted to the ponytail, the bun, the french twist, or the chignon that my hair has practically formed a mold to thanks to a recent 50+ hour workweek. At the time I took this job, I wasn't aware that it was not only my dress, my piercings, and my tattoos were unacceptable. Yes, I was told I was going to have to 'manage' my hair. Their words, not mine.

Lauren from the stock room, a U of T graduate who is currently 'figuring out her life' from behind a towering pile of immersion blenders and from under an assortment of silicone spatulas, has managed to be the only Lauren I've ever met who pronounces Lauren with an accent and can get away with it without sounding like a pretentious asshole. I realise the fact that she was born & bred in Toronto makes this even more surprising. After over a month at Williams-Sonoma, I've given up on correcting my associates when I hear "Laureeeeen-with-an-accent-egu-over-the-E! There's a man in electrics who needs the down-lo on the $4,000 Jura Z5 Espresso maker!" crackling in my headset. Sometimes, I sort of secretly wish that when I started my life over and moved to Toronto, I had introduced myself as Lauren-with-an-accent-egu-over-the-E.

But even re-reading that last sentance, I know I already sound like the pretentious asshole I assume most Laurens who pronounce their names with an accent are.

After two somewhat-major relationships and too many not-so major ones, I still to this day have fortunately never called the wrong name in bed. It's inevitable that if you're seeing or sleeping with a number of partners at the same time, you're gonna fuck up sometime and letting the wrong name slip is a pretty easy mistake. I've done it once or twice. As long as you're not in bed (or on the couch, or the kitchen table, or the washing machine..), I honestly don't think it's that much of a problem. The initial awkwardness will pass, and alot worse could have happened. This may just be because I come from a serial cheater of a father who is famous for his "it's good to have a port in every storm" theory and a couple theories about how your mistress needs to be at least two area codes away from your partner.

"As long as they're further than forty five minutes away from eachother, it's okay!" He once told me. I'm being serious. His only relationship that hasn't ended in a marriage since he was 25 ended because the woman lived closer than forty five minutes away from his then-mistress. I guess Kelowna and Penticton are closer than they appear on Google Maps. Their names were too close to call, and without seperate area codes to seperate their dirty text messages, he had nothing left to do but dump 'em.

I believe I am one of the only women in the Western Hemisphere that doesn't condemn a man for accidentally blurting out "Elaine" in lieu of "Eleanor".

This week, my current gentleman-friend (again, for the lack of a better word) is going to be meeting good ol' Papa Wilton & I for a relaxed dinner at the Jamie Kennedy Wine Bar, my weakness south of Queen St. West. It's not often that I offer up my dates to my parents on a silver platter, but this one is under 30 and can hold his liquour (for the most part) which is a pre-requisite in my family on my father's side. And because he's not my boyfriend, it takes the pressure off me to make him look or act better than he actually is- although to be honest, he's pretty damn great.

Now I can only hope, pray and quiz my father over the phone from the 416 to the 250 to make sure he'll get his name right.

Because like Superman and Lois Lane, we are just as strong, we are just the same.

i'll be your yoko ono.

The best part about my current gentleman-friend, for the lack of a better word, is that we can have really great sex & then I can spend all my extra spare time thinking up differant, hilarious ways more facetious than the last to make fun of the fact that he loves the Barenaked Ladies.

mothership connection (star child).

I was afraid that a visit from my mother would mean much of the same that went on in Winnipeg. You know, fights about my language, my dress, who or who not I was sleeping with at the time, the fact that I should throw out my knee high black suede boots with the puke stains from drinking too much behind Royal Albert Hotel and the salt stains from the Winnipeg sidewalks between late October until mid-April...

So far, other than a mild tiff about her tip calculation at Terroni, a really horrifying conversation about T.I. vs. Ludacris, and a quick veto of my hairstyle, it ain't going so bad.

I forgot that with my mother here, I can finally enter Holt Renfrew without looking like I was lost and misplaced it for Honest Ed's. I know she'll replenish my Chanel face powder that is on the side of the highway somewhere between Madison & Detroit, my fancy Kiehl's face cleanser that I used up just before my three week mark in the big city, and hell, she'll probably insist that I buy the refreshing toner with salicylic acid as well.

"The city has certainly not done wonders for your complexion. Are you drinking enough water?"

She may have scoffed at my answer, "No, but does wine count?" but hell, she knew it was coming.

I don't really give my mum enough credit, but after all, how bad can she be? She looks great in fur, she tells truly inspiring innapropriate stories after a couple glasses of pinot (where do you think I got it?), and gave birth to me.

And I think I turned out okay.

prairie fire that wanders about.

I need to get a haircut & a root dye-job soon or else everybody will, gasp, find out that I'm not really Marilyn blonde naturally anymore.

here, my dear.

"I'm going to be a gentleman tonight, baby. Don't worry about it."



Since I didn't/couldn't make it out to Martha Wainwright tonight for all-intensive recuperation purposes, I figured spending my night with Marvin Gaye would be the next best thing. I figured it was Time to Get it Together. I've got what seems like the entire gaybourhood partying in my living room (I'm fairly certain I can hear Mariah Carey, no joke..), so it's a good thing I've got Marvin's discography on iTunes (and about a bazillion YouTube videos of him) to keep me company.

I'd like to know who the fool woman is that's telling 'him to put his suspenders back on in this live version of "Let's Get it On" at the Montreaux Jazz Festival.



I'm always tempted to throw him down on the record player when company comes, but with so few of the people that come over being people I'd like to make sweet, sweet love with I usually just stick to Al Green or Syl Johnson if I'm in the mood for the soul of a black man (uh, always). They make me want to take my pants off less. Sort of.

I thought it was going to be hard enough to wait for the release of NOTORIOUS on January 16, but after some soul & internet research I have recently been in(ternet)formed that Jesse L. Martin (of Law & Order and Rent fame) and James Gandolfini will be starring in Sexual Healing- a biopic of Gaye's life to be released in 2010.

Although my current flame couldn't be with me tonight (and yes ladies & gentlemen, as of recently there is only one), I'm nowhere near lovelorn. I'm, for the most part, very happy with what's going on.

What's going on.. What's going on..