Wednesday, October 8, 2014

that time I got to audtion for a cooking show

So last summer a very famous cooking show was coming to Canada. Being the huge fan of my cooking that he is, the Frenchman tells me that I should totally "audition for dat". So we write up the application and lo and behold I get a phone call. During said phone call, I have a hysterically funny conversation with the girl who invites me to the closed auditions. The Very VAGUE directions that are sent to us indicate that we'll be judged on originality, knife skills, bj technique, taste, etc. Ok, so one of those might not have been on the form - you can decide which. After much deliberation I decide that my grandmother's perogy recipe is not going to travel well and auditions are 2.5 hours away. I decide on a nice elk lettuce boat. Forgetting that the nicely seared elk is going to be really fragrant shoe leather after 2.5 hours of driving and another 2 hours of waiting. but bygones! So I turn up at a hotel in a town that rhymes with Shmalgary all perky and ready to stun. Cut to me signing my life away about never mentioning the name of this show, never talking about fight club, the first rule is don't talk about fight club yada yada yada. SO, I have to pose for a picture. The lovely little intern proceeds to drop into splits to get low enough to get me into the frame of the picture. I get it. I'm borderline little person material. Seriously. I get it. Stand up and shoot downward, ok?!?! Did you get my shoes? My rack? no?!?! well what was the point of that production!?! So I make my way to a table to wait until it's time to do the 3 minute "VOILA" unveiling of our dishes. A very angry woman wanders in and announces "I'm here. You can start now". I get wanting to make yourself stand out but talking loudly about the young man you bang and about how much you hate your toddlers is really not that impressive. I am amused by the people encouraging you to hold court. I am even more amused by your "I don't care what you think about me" when I gasp at your statement in which you wished your son dead until he was 3. Clearly you don' care what I think. Do the voices in your head care what I think? I'd like to talk to the one in charge of your mental health care. Wow. My table has 4 people at it. 3 of us are normal, hard working, career-minded individuals. The 4th quickly finds a table of wackadoos to hang with. So the 3 of us turn our chairs to face the rest of the room and observe this spectacle. I have now come to the conclusion (at approximately 9 am and 20 minutes into this process) that this is not something I want to do. I have a great career. Aside from wanting to print my Grandmother's kick-ass recipes into a cookbook, I have no designs on being a television personality. I do not want to leer a soul-stealing smile at you (a la Giada) while extolling the virtues of lemon zest. I do not want to say things like "let me throw these guys on the grill" (a la rob rainford) and I certainly don't want to do enough curls to give myself Matt Dunigan's biceps (although I would gladly take a bite out of those bad boys. miaoowwwwww! ps. what does matt dunigan's ass look like? does he have chicken legs? wait. nevermind!) All I want to do is a get a bit of recognition for being a great cook. on tv. While looking good. Since I am a short, chubby dwarf, this really means just shots of my cleavage with my little chipmunk voice in the background. Like Nigella on helium. SO we do our 3 minute demo. One lady has brought samosas. Pre-made. Which she plates and then stands there smiling while everyone else has a heart attack trying to plate and show knife skills and compensate for the lack of kitchen facilities, refrigeration and a heat source. A lovely young girl explains she is between jobs and cancelled a trip to Mexico to be there. Another adorable BC hippie explains that he left his job and that everything in his (DELICIOUS!) sandwich is home made. From bread to sausage to home-grown veggies!. Yet another man explains that he left his job to come to this audition. One young YOUNG girl in her "sexy hipster" costume of short shorts, wedge heels and red lipstick has a beautiful presentation. Then the chef comes through to taste our food. The interns quietly inform us that the day before, he did not even try everyone's food. He wanders through tasting and talking. Seeming unimpressed by everything. We're herded back to the small room where the angry lady starts performing again. Wine is passed. Individual interviews are conducted. The single mom with no job comes back, wiping away tears. She informs us that there was bonding all around and everyone cried. You guys, I work in the oil and gas industry. THERE IS NO CRYING. I had 8 lb children without crying. I'm certainly not going to shed tears over some heirloom tomatoes and a pretty presentation!! I am now doubly convinced that I am in the wrong place and this is a horrible mistake! After an interminable hour, in which samosa lady has her interview and then comes back to sit, stating she "never wants this day to end", it is finally My turn. I walk in and I can tell they're not feeling me anymore than I'm feeling them. I'm handed plastic food and asked what I'd make with it. Apparently a "melted pile of carcinogenic fumes" is not what they want to hear. I'm dismissed after a few nowhere questions such as "where is your family?". Um. My family is at home. 2.5 hours away. Enjoying this beautiful summer day while I sit with a bunch of desperate wannabe Ramsay's (btw, I don't want to be a Ramsay. I want to be Nigella's short, dumpy stunt cook!). Again, this is the wrong answer. I am dismissed. I am thrilled. Until I get out and they call the next interviewee. And I realize I've left my fabulous Kate Spade handbag on the floor in that meeting room. DAMNIT! After another 20 interminable minutes I get my bag and I'm free to go. Months later when the show airs, I see a few familiar faces. I won't say who. I will say that its pretty clear that aside from cooking skills, they want wackadoos. People who WANT this. Who NEED this. I'll never watch reality tv the same way again. I will however, still picture Ramsay shirtless and yelling at me (for staring at his crotch). I will also picture Bastianich curling his nose up at my attempt at homemade pasta (while I picture him shirtless and stare as his crotch). I will also picture that little peanut Graham in his little hipster cuffed jeans. I am also fully aware that the moment the Asian judge who chewed with his mouth full gave me shit, I'd have likely launched across the table at him. So really, everything happens for a reason. I will always enjoy watching the US and Canadian versions of the program. I am grateful for my insight into the process of choosing the cast. and I am even more grateful that I get to drink 2 glasses of wine while watching and talking smack. I may need a bigger glass.

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Catholic School Recovery

So tonight after a DELICIOUS meal made by me (of course!), we settled into our adjustable bed to watch Supernatural. Because all 75 yr old couples have adjustable beds. I was too cheap to buy the one that adjusted each side separately so we both sit up to watch this business. ANYWAYS, while watching Dean and Whatsisnuts speak in their best "I'm Batman" grunts, the Frenchman asks me if they're saying "Megatron". I respond that they are in fact saying "Metatron". Since I know that we both went to Catholic school, I'm now wondering which part of this story might have been lost in the translation from Hebrew to Latin to Swahili to English to French (that's the path it took, right?). So I explain to him "well you see, Metatron was the voice of God. Because mere humans couldn't bear God's real voice. . Because you know, God's voice was hard on humans. It made them ummmm bleed out their ass and stuff.". And as we stared at each other and then snickered (while looking for that lightning bolt to smite us!!) I realized that poor Sister Benedicta was probably rolling in her grave. Unless she's still alive and then I'm even more of an a-hole!! But seriously, thank you Catholic school system. You did your best. And who knows how I would have turned out if I hadn't been an altar girl and stuff. I mean really - if you think this is bad, imagine if I'd never had that whole strict religious schooling bit. I'd be the world's chubbiest stripper or something! or I'd be Ricky Gervais' fluffer! I wonder if there's time to be Colin Farrell's fluffer? He's got to be Catholic, being all Irish and tortured and such. Dear Colin Farrell, I am available to work out my purgatory here on earth by being your fluffer. Holy crap. 2 glasses of wine and I am seriously sacrilegious! I'm going to switch and write about my experience in closed auditions for a show that rhymes with "Blaster Meff".

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Oh yes it's ladies night...

That song is playing in my head. Not the awesome Kool and the Gang version, but the horribly EPIC version sung by Jon Lovitz in The Wedding Singer.

In light of the emotional roller coaster that has been my personal life, I called a summit last weekend. I scheduled it for this Saturday. Yep, a ladies night. I am not even sure WHICH of my ladies are appearing (although K-MC and Maverick are confirmed), but it doesn't matter. I only need to have one of these maniacs around to ensure that shenanigans will ensue!

To show you some of the planning that goes into a ladies night, I am sharing a text message conversation between myself and K-MC.

K-MC: I don't know what I'll wear. Maybe just jeans and a shirt, I don't want to fall down and flash people.
Me: That's how I introduce myself.

Yep, I like to keep it classy and dignified. The last time I was at this particular establishment with K-MC, it was my 39th birthday. One of my fondest memories of that night is looking over to see K-MC sling a rugby player over her shoulder and pretend to carry him out of the bar. K-MC is one of those incredibly feminine and pretty women that can totally act as a bodyguard should the need arise. I heart her for that!!

There's really no point to this, except that I promised myself I would blog more frequently and HELLOOOOOO!!! LADIES NIGHT!!! WOOT!!

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

What are you doing on Valentine's Day?

So, quite QUITE some time ago, I was doing that whole online dating thing. Remember? I'm fairly scarred by it, so I'm sure you do!

While on a heavily advertised site that supposedly matches you based on your compatibility. I was matched with a man I shall call "Beret Boy" because as I recall, he had a beret on in his profile picture. So, Beret Boy and I exchange an email. He tells me he thinks I'm stunning. Considering my profile picture is a picture of me drunk, with girlfriends (faces blacked out for the sake of their security AND their pride!), I'm pretty sure this guy likes his women slightly simple looking. Nevermind. We're super compatible! It says so!!

Turns out he works with troubled children. I assumed there was some level of education involved in that, but it turns out not so much. By the 4th email, I had learned that he had 2 grown children, was friends with his exes, had a head injury that gave him seizures, he didn't drive because he wasn't allowed to, he waxed poetic but couldn't spell, AND, he was trying to book me for Valentine's Day. Which was 4 or 5 months away. You guys, I had never EVER met this man!! Aside from his wordy emails (which I responded to with variations of "really? hahaha" or "no kidding? lol") we had never spoken.

Let's get into the shallow side of things for a sec. I'm no tall skinny supermodel by any stretch, but I do alright with the men. Meaning, I have standards! lol. You all know I like a big man with broad shoulders and that a bit of a tummy is ok. When I say a bit of a tummy, I do not mean something that sits on your lap like a pet cat. I mean just a bit of nice warm tummy to curl up next to on cold nights! I quickly realized that even on this super-scientific matching site, when a man has only face shots, you should worry. He sent me a picture you guys. He sent me a full body shot. I mean a FULL BODY SHOT that should have been blurred, but it's kind of ok because basically everything was obscured by what was a lot more than just a bit of tummy.

So, to summarize: VERY heavyset man, ready for his own A&E show. History of head trauma (can I refer you all back to One Ear/One Eye and remind you why I am slightly leery of head trauma in my dating choices?!?!). Overly attached and enthusiastic. SENT ME AN UNCLOTHED PCICTURE!! Still, was I running for the hills? Not just yet. That happened on Day 4 of the email exchanges.

He had a pattern of sending me MANY messages (at least one every hour, several times a day) and he seemed to understand that I would respond to all of them with just one message of my own. Until Day 3, when apparently he had decided we were ready for a commitment. The emails were coming 4 or 5 every hour. I didn't even want to read them. It was akin to Stewie Griffin's version of love letters. Each mail would have a 4 word sentence. "Hi :)" or "You're so pretty" or "You're so smart. I'm so lucky". Obviously this was a bit off-putting. So I did what I always do in situations where men are pressuring me romantically - pretended he didn't exist. When his messages were met with silence, he turned the Creep dial to 9 and started asking why I wasn't responding. So I explained that this level of attention was too much for me, that I had a family AND a life and could not respond to 39 emails a day. That I was just frankly not that interested, and perhaps he should look for someone more in line with his personality. Of course he became offended and told me no one else came even close to me. (ummm huh?).

So, long story short...I just quit emailing him after that. After about 6 weeks, he sent me one final attempt at communication. This one saying "I understand your point. It's been awhile since I was interested in a woman with children. I'll leave you alone, but I'll be at (redacted) Restaurant on Valentine's Day 2010, hoping you'll join me."

Sigh. You guys, what does it mean when THIS is what I am matched with by a scientific matching system?!?! This means I'm the problem, doesn't it?!! It's ok, you can tell me!!!

Bad Blogger

I am a bad blogger. Really, with this whole only dating the Frobbit thing I've been doing, life is boring. I can't really blog about the Frobbit and all of his CRAP (and sweet mother of pearl, is there a lot!!) until after we finally call it quits on this until then, I will just discuss the fact that I am not sure why I date him. So let's discuss:

He's short. Since when do I date short men? (FYI, if you look at the picture, he looks tall but I'm 4'11 - and a half! so he's not that tall, I just make French Hobbits look tall!!) I've now realized why I don't date short men. There really is such a thing as short man syndrome. I didn't think it was true, but it totally is!!

He's French. Now listen, my dad is from NB and I grew up with a dislike for Francophones ingrained in me. I admit that at first I found the accent ANNOYING but now I like it. On the few occasions he speaks French in front me, I actually quite enjoy it. Now that I know that "poussette" is a term of endearment and does not mean go kart or squawky chicken, I quite like it. Although I confess that I made such a huge deal out of him calling me a squawky chicken that he no longer calls me that. Sad face!

He's not my "type". Do you see a soul patch on that mug? A scar? A shaved head? Are there bulging biceps and tattoos? Nope, not a one. He is also not social. At all. The man hates going dancing, going to a pub, going to parties full of my crazy friends. He is definitely not an extrovert!

He's broken. Guys, remember when I said I would no longer date projects? I inadvertently found the biggest project in the history of the world. Like, broken on epic proportions. He's chronically commitment-phobic (worse than I am even!!), doesn't show affection easily or say sweet things very often and I won't even start on all the past emotional traumas he's had. Which of course means I am probably madly in love with him, right?

On the flip side, he does have good traits. He's FABULOUS with my littlest spawn and the big kids like him. He has no issues with telling me when I'm being a smidge bossy (I know, it's shocking that I could be at all forceful, right?). When we hang out and sit on the couch, which pretty much accounts for 98% of our time as a couple, it's very comfortable.

Why must I turf him? He just can't get his Frobbit life together. That and the fact that he lied to me about some important issues for almost a year...and that he has an ex that is apparently never, EVER going to go away. To the point that I am no longer sure she's actually an ex.

Sometimes, in the blog world, we just write things to get them off our chest or to see it in print and realize just how black and white an issue is. This, I think, is one of those times.

All I can promise is this: When the Frobbit and I are done, I will itemize every single reason he's a jerkface. Although it will make me feel stupid, the cathartic side of it is too valuable to pass up.

This also means that I will likely start dating again...and you all remember how bad my dates are, right? Which reminds me, I have more dating stories of times past for you!!

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

How I spent my 40th birthday..Part 1 - the waterslides

So this past august was my big 4-0. I usually like to celebrate my birthday over a week, because there's just SO much fun to be had when you walk around in a beautiful swarovski crystal tiara at 8 in the morning on a workday..for a week.

My sweet A1 decided she'd take a hand in planning this year's birthday party and what was originally going to be a day of backyard beer olympics turned into a day at the outdoor waterslides due to lack of response from attendees (and let that be a lesson to you slackers that don't like to plan ahead!!!). No big, we can do backyard beer olympics next year. hmph.

So the day arrives and we head to the slides. I get there to see that A1 and her awesome bf, A2 and her bf, Eggroll, Mini-Barbie and the Aussie are already there. With coolers. Full of alcohol. Right near a sign that says "NO ALCOHOL ALLOWED". Sigh. I love my friends. As I am forced to do a jello shot right from the ice cube tray, A1's cousin NoFilterHottie shows up. Now NoFilterHottie is one of those chicks you either love or hate. She has NO FILTER at all. What you see is what you get. I happen to think that's one of her best qualities, but I could see where it'd be off-putting if she decided you're a piece of crap. Of course, if she thinks you're a dirtbag, you probably are so shut up!! So NoFilterHottie and her fiance are there. I'd never met the fiance before and NFH introduces me as "This is Sherrin. SEE?! I TOLD YOU HER BOOBS ARE HUGE". I wasn't sure whether to slap him in the face with one or shake his hand, but I believe we gave the awkward "hello" nod and wandered over to the rest of the group.

As Mini-Barbie hands me my birthday gift of Baby Duck (by the way, that never came home with me you guys? WHERE IS IT?!?!) while toddling across a hilly park in her bikini, matching shorts and 4 inch wedge heeled shoes I thought that the afternoon was going to end in about an hour with us being kicked out for public indecency. (Strangely enough, we were allowed to stay and left of our own accord a few hours later.)

Flash-forward to my daughter arriving with her bf (no longer around but I like the new one better anyways!) and his friend and NFH saying to no one in particular "SHERRIN'S DAUGHTER'S BOOBS ARE HUGE". NFH didn't speak below a shout the whole time..although that could just be my recollection as I worked my way through some vodka-infused berries and club soda.

Next memory? An inter-racial family was sitting relatively near the shanty town we had made from coolers, blankets and lazy drunks. We were seriously one garbage can fire away from looking like a well-dressed and well-coiffed homeless shelter. NFH has a potty mouth to match mine and we were getting louder and louder so the mother came over and asked us to keep it down. She was very polite and quite lovely and NFH was very gracious to her...until about an hour later when she reacted to the teasing of her fiance by loudly stating "SHUT UP OR I WILL SLAP THE BROWN RIGHT OFF YOU". It was at this point that the inter-racial family decided to go home. Sorry about that. Except for Eggroll, we really do love everyone regardless of color, nationality, etc. (unless they can't drive, then we get to mutter under our breath about them as we drive by).

The only time we saw the Park PoPo was when one of the lifeguards came by to ask us not to smoke. A2 and her chrome-dome bf had been smoking but had disposed of everything. When the HoffWannabe came over...well let me take this moment to describe him. He was at LEAST 45, heading to a pot belly, wearing the red shorts made famous by the Hoff. A zip-up jacket, unzipped over his unevenly waxed chest. His hair? A modification of the business in front/party in back look. In fact, it was the "f@g tag" popular in the mid-80's. Short, with a long rat-like tail hanging down his back. So when he wandered over, we were not filled with lust, shame, intimidation or any of those other things a life guard should inspire. We were filled with a sense of "wtf". A sense that we had falled into our own Hot Tub Time Machine. A sense of wonder that this man somehow continued to exist in his hairstyle challenged state. Back to his visit to our shanty town, which we were now thinking of naming "Mcdrunkville". so he comes over and tells us there had been complaints about someone in our group smoking. As he wandered over and looked into our glasses (which, except for our designated drivers, were FILLED with contraband alcohol!!) he could see no cigarette butts. So he then APOLOGIZED for bothering us and left us to our pilfered drinks. OMG I LOVE THAT PLACE SO MUCH!!!

Aside from some very brave squirrels that kept trying to make off with our food, that's all I really remember from an afternoon spent in the sun with some of my favorite people. The evening part of the festivities are where it gets REALLY good!

Tuesday, July 20, 2010


My myriad dating experiences have led me to complete awareness as to what my deal breakers are! I started listing it and it seemed overwhelming, but I can justify all of them so here we go. In no particular order, my deal breakers are:

- Men who HATE their ex. Not just dislike them but a seething hatred that makes you uncomfortable when faced with it. This means they are either unable to deal with disappointment (cmon people, we've ALL had our hearts broken, you move past it and carry put on the big girl panties and get on with life!!) or are still in love and suffering from the loss. Either or, it's a bad situation for the single woman!!

- Deadbeat dads. 'Nuff said.

- Owning and USING a deep fryer. This is one of my neuroses, but it shows a certain lack of care for your health and a definite lack of concern for what you put in your body. There's no way you're going in THIS body if there's a chance your arteries are going to explode while visiting the pleasure garden!!!

- Not owning a cork screw/thinking Arbor Mist or Boone's is "wine". If a man invites you over for a glass of wine and whips out some Arbor Mist, you need to run. As fast as you can. If you bring a beautiful bottle of wine to go with a dinner and he tries to open it with a screwdriver. Just no. NO NO NO.
Note: There are some decent wines in a box - don't judge a boy for his wine in a box!!

- A man that looks at you blankly and says he doesn't understand you when you say things like "The onus is now on me". Let's read a book, shall we? Perhaps some word of the day toilet paper?

- Ed Hardy ANYTHING. Seriously. Just stop.

- Crocs. See above.

- Overly groomed. Call me insecure, but I want to be the one classified as "pretty" in my relationships!

Add yours in the comments ladies, we ALL have them!!