Scrumdiddilyumptious.

I love to eat.

I remember back in the beginning of high school (really not that long ago), the glare I received from my little sister's baby-sitter as I brought up an ravaged, empty, cheese-encrusted nacho plate from my room, only to snag a tub of cookies 'n cream ice cream from the freezer with one grubby hand, two slices of pizza in the other.

She stood with her hand on her hip as she told me, snarkily, "You know, Kasandra, if you keep eating like that, when you hit puberty, you're going to blow up."

I turned around, grabbing the Nesquik, and replied, "Well, 'till then, I'm gonna have to live it up."

Oh, and I did. And I have. I don't know when (or if) I ever really hit puberty, and while I can't claim to be as stringbean-y as I was in my hey day, I haven't hit the helium stages yet.

My tastes of course, have matured with my body. While I still have more sweet teeth than any other kind, I can always appreciate a good, delicious meal. And without my chef-in-residence brother around to cater to my stomach's every whim, nor a checkbook equipped with the means to cover nightly extravagant dinners out, I'm left with two hands, a fridge, an oven... and the internet. My mother kindly passed down the homemaker's tradition with a gifted Betty Crocker cookbook last year, and I kindly shoved it atop the fridge to gather dust alongside dishwasher warranties and vacuum manuals.

Instead, I've turned to a much more interactive, innovative, experimental (ok, and prettier) source―the food blog.

Tonight I dragged my favorite foodie friend out (or rather, in, as staying in is lately my favorite) to help indulge in some deep-dish apple pancakes a la mode. Mm, a veritable masterpiece, best when seconds (and, inevitably, thirds and fourths) are shared. Of course, I shovel much faster than I snap photos and could never manage to start a food blog of my own, but I'll happily turn a friend's hungry head in their direction.

And so, a few of my favorites:

Closet Cooking. Young guy from Toronto, often cooks for one. Perhaps we're soul (food) mates? Who else could make a 13-word recipe title sound so enticing? (Roasted Butternut Squash and Caramelized Onion Pizza with Gorgonzola and Crispy Fried Sage)

Love and Olive Oil. Misleading Italian name, not entirely devoted to C-A-R-B-S. Wondefully scrumptious cupcakes.

Think you know how to make nachos? It's not-so. Check out these fatties from a real Homesick Texan.

Pinch My Salt caught my attention with the cheeky name, and then further irked my inklings with a real recipe for sweet potato fries. Can't... resist....

Now, if you get caught up in the vicous cycle of food blogs, don't delusion yourself of your desires. Indulge, once, maybe twice. But a tip of advice from my personal pool? Don't get really 'heavy' into the desserts section a week before your bikini'd beach vacation. You'll pay for it at the gym, and in the pictures. Ok?

Blog appetit!

(Make)Over it.

Hottie or nottie?

Truth is, none of these women exist. Not online, not in the real world. They are our (or white America's) standards of good looks, the difference between the babe-alicious and the "I wouldn't touch her with a 10-foot poles".

Each of these pictures is a composite of about 30 photos from a certain ranking range at HotorNot.com, making up the ho-hum "6", or the hoOOoo baby "10". Gentlemen, you now have a gauge to base your shallow appearance-based judgments for any hun that walks her hot (or not) buns past. And, according to PSY124, you're more likely to help the "7" than the "6" if she trips and falls. Why? Even babies know it, and show it―they prefer pretty faces from the moment their squinty little eyes slide open―good-looking people get further in life (at least, according to social psych―don't quote―or kill me).

But what is this good-looking anyways? The difference between the "9.0-9.5"ers and the top of the heap is merely make-up, or more likely, some conniving chicks white-washing clean their blemishes with the not-so-secret brightness/contrast tool. Photoshop is a beautiful thing. How else do you think Brit Brit made her comeback so fresh-faced? Further, may I stress: EYELINER. Lots of it, and only in midnight shades. Lip plumper. Or, as it appears, that icy-purplish shade known as acceptable only in select seventh-grade myspace circles, yet seen as offensive and utterly embarassing anywhere else.

While I've considered it in the (distant) past, I've never allowed myself entry onto the vicious world that is hotornot.com. And in retrospect, I'm glad. Cause even if I'd earn the unattainable perfect 1-0,  I wouldn't―I couldn't be satisfied. The miss perfect ten of hotornot is a photoshopped, Maybellined falsehood. Maybe its subconscious jealousy speaking, but imo, the only way to find girls who actually look like this on the net is by visiting your favorite friendly porn site.

the good kind of mix-up.

It's time to reintroduce the mixtape.

Or perhaps "reintroduce" isn't the right word. Since CDs, then MP3s, Ipods, and the resurgence of vinyl, mixtapes have experienced a few moments in silence, but they've been repetively glorified as icons of the early 90s in all kinds of pop culture memorabilia. From best-selling books to boombox bags, the mixtape never really shut up -- even once the sales of blank tapes did. 

My home collection of personal mixtapes is mostly stolen from Rick Dees and the Weekly Top 40 -- a collection of Enrique, Love Inc., and Vertical Horizon -- one which I refused to be ashamed of. I've carefully written the tracklisting in gold gel pen on each label, some a few times over when I ran out of 1-dollar blanks. I listened to more mixtapes than I bought real tapes, and I didn't own a discman, nor a CD player 'till mid-junior high (is that old?). I'm sure everyone and their dog wants to say they were a mixtape afficiando back in the good ol' days, but I'm pretty sure I played my part -- and I played my part loud. I mean, there was a large Coldplay phase somewhere in between... but no more needs to be said about that. Chris Martin's still one hot dada.

Anywho, now that I've bored you with my nostalgia, it's time to regrasp your attention, as I introduce you to something a little more aesthetically appealing than my own bewildering babblings. Now that muxtape's gone all muddly, and because I cannot afford to send each and every one of my three loyal blog readers their own personal tape, I have had to track down a substitute. And don't give me any credit, it wasn't a tough task.

So now please, I insist -- sit back, relax, and allow yourself to be soothed by my first "favtape". If you know me, you know I'm the nerdy music junkie type -- but I've had to tone it down for my introductory work (and fear not, I'll bring out my signature full-on weird-out stuff in due time). 

Now I know we all listen to foreign music - sure, Rolling Stones and Rihanna are outta-towners, but here I suggest you delve into some deeper cuts. And so, for the purposes of this playlist, I've ignored all artists from Canada, the States, and U.K. -- not cause I dislike 'em, but... well, they're just too easy. I've specially imported some select tracks from Sweden, Denmark, Japan, Australia, Lichtenstein... oh, and this one dude from Santa Fe, but his band is named after a place in Lebanon -- that counts, right?

But don't let me do all the talking -- I've entitled my masterpiece "Erocktic Exotica". Listen, let the travelling tracks soothe your ears, repeat... there will be more to come.

for such a small price, ms. perry requests your presence....

where I belong.

Some way, somehow,

No matter how much work I've done, regardless of how much homework I have left to do... on Monday nights, the point at which I realize I can work no longer always seems to align perfectly with the buffering of a certain gossip reel...

NYmag awards the highest number of points -- 25 -- last night for Derroda's personal ringtone "I'm a Slave 4 U" for whenever Eleanor summons.

My own tally?

I'm a slave to Gossip Girl. Plus 25 for owning my Monday-nightlife, JRN 312, 0.

You probably don't care, but...

...after years of complaints, insults, and quitter talk, a new saga has begun in the sports section of my life...

coach bob got the axe. And as it turns out, he was the one dumb enough to drop it on his own foot.

D-oh!

In his futile attempts to secure the full-time position of coaching the women's team, Bob failed to recognize that the mere "technicality" of posting the job position would cost him his team.

We've got Olympians, national team members, Americans, Brazillians.... and Bob. One of these things is not like the other....

Meet Dustin Reid. He has a Nine Inch Nails tattoo--he's pretty fuckin' cool... at least for a coach.

 All that really matters? Bob's gone.. gonzo.. kaput!

a postcard from Sweden.

Meet Gustav Ejstes.

He's the one-man musical mastermind behind Swedish folk-psych-fantasy rock outfit Dungen (DOON-gen). He records every aspect of entire albums by himself, and graciously allows a few good men to accompany him on tour, carrying instruments and standing on stage... it's like he's in a band or something. 

The mass of musical instruments he brings on tour probably outweigh his slight frame, yet cannot overpower his mastery over each object he plays. A man of the many talents, Gustav can play a magical flute while simultaneously smoking cheap cigarettes. He's a man with the midas touch, everything he touches turns to musical gold. He's the magnificent merchant of everything beautiful and Swedish (he even makes dirty captain mo's and ginger ale mix well). He likes rap as much as John Bauer.

And, more than anything else, this 28-year-old loves 6 a.m. lectures towards unassuming younger women on life accomplishments and success. Bless your sweet, sweet Swedish soul, Gustav.  Please come back to Canada.

it's not farewell, it's just "for now".

League's on. I'm (temporarily, I hope) waving bye-bye to blogosphere and welcoming the world of volleyball. I can blog the rest of my life, but now's prime time for play.

If you really want to see me, come to a game. Bring a sign that says my name in obnoiously huge letters. Bring noisemakers, and if you choose, a brew or two... I'll never tell....

Found, kitchen counter, 8 p.m.

Dear Kass,

I took a coule shots of your vodka [of the nine-dollar-per-litre bottle from New York] one night after the LCBO closed. Here is some Grey Goose.

(heart) Russ

When I walked in the door four hours ago, fresh off my four-hour flight, my roommate skipped over to say hi with the glee of a six-year old on Christmas morning. He'd painted blank canvases for the bare walls on the weekend―the decoration we've dreamed up for months, yet never put art into action. For once, the place looks lived in... new DVDs and a TV to watch them on. Mood lighting for the rooms. And even, if the kitchen sink isn't always clean as per my nazi-style inspection, I can't get mad―because who am I kidding; I had to steal his camera just to write this post. 

Russ―1, Kass―0.

Polly put the kettle on...

all I ever do when I go home, is go for coffee.... catching up on growing up and all the goods and bads that go along with it (in fact, it's gotten so bad that I have to rotate coffee shops so the baristas don't think I'm a caffeine addict... and I'm not, I swear).

... but somtimes, nothing warms the hands (and, *tear*, heart) like a good ol' friend and a good cup o' joe.

overheard at the polls...

"Sorry, you need something to prove your address before you can vote."

"Uh, nobody said that..."

"Well, then we can't let you vote today, sorry miss."

Rifling through wallet "Library card? No. Letter from a curator? No. Fishing license? Hell no!"

"Do you live close?"

"Um, kinda, but ... don't ... have... time.. can you please... just..."

The pollsters mumble amongst themselves. "Okay, miss, whats your address?"

I read my address off the card I just handed her (duh!).

"Well miss, let's, er, just say that your provided us with proper I.D. Here's your ballot."

Ah, the convenience of corruption.... Canadian politics, whatta joke. 

When you hear ringing and your phone's unplugged....

... you probably need to invest in a pair of ear plugs.

Ratatat and Tiger, Beck's and Beck. My white weekend's been full of bevvies fit to the tune of the music.  But because I need to revel in a few minutes of shut eye, stat, I'm giving the quick run-down...

Ratatat was wild(cat), perfect music for gamers who also enjoy sailing. A brilliant hybrid of natural outdoorsiness, with jungle and ocean themes, mixed with the sounds of Sega Genesis and euro beats, and topped off with a majestic light and dry-ice show. My only issue? I fear for a case of whiplash for the keyboardist. Happy t(r)ails to you, Ratatat!

MGMT, this time around appeared, as my pal so eloquently put it, "a cross between Prince and Axl Rose." With mullets and handkerchiefs, the dirty New Yorkers did recall a certain Welcome to the Jungle, but with less badassery and more inter-ga-lac-tic plan-e-tar-y. My, how their hair has grown. 

Beck, oh Beck. Are you crazy because you are on drugs or on drugs to help you live through your artistic(?) craziness? Beck's popularity would be shot without his rock anthem choruses and catchy slacker anthem riffs. It's like Cobain passed the early 90s alternative torch, er guitar, directly to Beck for the rest of the decade. Sure, you may be able to shout along to soy un perdedor, but what comes after "why don't you kill me?" Obscure, muttered beat poetry dots the funky, bass-heavy beats all throughout Beck's varied repertoire. Well, except for his latest. Beck's certainly feeling guilty about something lately, as his latest release does sound a whole lot depressed. I guess even rock stars go through mid-life crises... 

Bad karma from above.

This is what happens to bad journalists....
Bloggers beware.

Dear "gentle"men at the library...

Go home. I don't care if you're commuters, this place is meant for the mute. I don't want to hear three phone calls about your trip to Holt Renfrew tomorrow and the size of your deep-v, because it probably won't look good when you wear it with your douchey sideways cap. And you won't be picking up any chicks with the amount of gas you pass. Rolling on the ground laughing at bodily functions is reserved for the toddlers on playgrounds, and crackheads in my backyard, but loudly, purposefully, at the library? Not my idea of a rootin', tootin' good time. 

"Settle down, boys," I say, and flash the international symbol for "shh." They drop the level down a few decibels, belch a few more times, and spend twenty minutes talking about fat chicks on Facebook.... and then another twenty about how they should get going. I turn to agree, but they are leaving. The pretty-boy in the Hollister shirt apologizes for his pal's rudeness, rather than saying sorry for his own like a man, and I lie, roll my eyes and say it's ok.

Finally, at 10 p.m., it's quiet. I reorganize my books, uncap a fresh highlighter, and get ready to get down to business. But then I hear that familiar rustling... and a soft "hey" from my left. It's pretty-boy, back in blue, and wanting to make ammends. "I'm so sorry, I really want to make it up to you. Can I take you to lunch?"

I look up, squander a snicker, stare deeply into his eyes... and say "no," and nothing else.

"Well, can I at least have your number?"

Sorry, I only date boys who are out of diapers. Go back to the 905.

signs of the apocalypse.

Inflation. Stock markets crashing. Cheaply outsourced labour.

None of the financial headlines have played a major role in my life of cheap thrills, until now―Dollarama, the everything-for-a-dollar-and-sometimes-less emporium, isn't living up to its great name.

According to the news, the store's infamously low prices will jump after sixteen years of standstill. For someone who feels so passionately about the establishment, and spends approximately half of her dollars at the 'rama, this news is absolutely detrimental. Where will I buy my shampoo? Juice boxes? Cases of spam?!

Dollar-and-twenty-five-cents-er,ama just doesn't have the same ring to it.

on procrastination.

sometimes, the dread is far more miserable than the deed itself.

and a warm welcome goes to...

guess who's joined the blogosphere??

the bitch is back.

lilo, hohan, red-headed slut (yes, like the shot), whatever name you assign to the bitch, she's out there.... and blogging on gay rights (and a mysterious "special someone"). Feel free to become commenter no. 3207... no, wait, 3212...

dear body...

... sorry for being so cruel to you. I promise to sleep more than six hours a night, consume no more than four alcoholic beverages for day, stop substituting cookie dough for meals, and try to come home before two on school nights.

At present, it's the best effort I can make.... I'm going to bed. Goodnight, world.

election selections.

Tonight, I'm staying in again with strep.

Common sense should denote me devoting time to write something intelligent, perhaps provide some insight into an intellectual matter. And there's one matter that matters a lot, but something I tend to avoid (especially for someone with U.S. citizenship).

I must admit, I'm typically a tad behind when it comes to the political race, but today, I've decided to up the ante, to broaden my horizons, to enter the critical, analytical blogosphere that is all to do with the U.S. election. 

I'd talk Palin, but I'm over the teenage-pregnancy hype, I'd speak of change, but Obama's got that covered... I'd talk McCain but I don't wanna bore anyone to sleep. That being said, there's only one last logical angle to cover...

the beautiful angles of Levi Johnston's chin. 

Happy voting!

oh dear god.

Froshies are trodding on my territory.

Scads of Abercrombie-clad clones are trampling all over my home stomping ground..

My backyard is backed-up with over-eager freshmen and all of the o-week, type-a's, busy pumping up newbie spirits and putting a damper on mine.

When I walk, I want to walk fast, mission-walk, through clear streets. I've got a lot of limb from the waist down and don't want to put it to waste. Call me a claustrophobe, or a country folk, but I just need some room to stretch out on my home street.

this is the end, my only friend.

It's the last day of summer.

Well, technically it's got three weeks to die off, but my landmark is typically the day before school begins.

So here we are, after months of wishing for summer, it's gone daddy gone. I spent the first half of yesterday in regret, and the second half wishing I had a better tan... but last night I looked through forgotten photos from the four months past. Sasquatch to Seattle, Niagara to New York, B.C. to BluesFest on the beach. I read books I've always wanted to, and some that I needed... I started listening to hip-hop. Some summer it was, and it's not that I'm ever reallyready to go back, but at least I can accept the fact.

So, today I'm spending the day basking in the last of the smoking rays, baking my skin 'till it's bronze, finger painting  and playing at the ex, and dancing 'till it's way past bedtime. I'll come home and sloppily lay out my fresh notebooks, new pens, and my never-been-used schoolbag, and cat-nap 'till class... so what if I show up a little bleary-eyed. Bring it on, fall.

The following is a small memoir to such a sweet summer.

... but you're freaking me out.

The next city, I love you film stars an all-star roster of players and directors similar to the last (which I did, in fact, love). This time, I'm hoping for little quirks to make big moments, to make the flick―from the predictable New York accents in delis to unexpected encounters in front of brownstones, and perhaps a little love on the soundtrack from James Murphy. 'Cause right now, it's a little unsettling to hear the trailer's theme sung by a Canadian.

jagerbombs, anyone?

Accoring to the Star, this is douchebag.

According to a certain communist's favorite blog, this is douchebag.

As for me... this is douchebag.

Now, compadres, I must ask you to act as intellectuals. Redefine Webster's. In an age where the term is entirely relevant, and widely-used, but rarely, if ever defined, I ask: what, loyal readers, does being a douchebag mean to you?

Feel free to point fingers.

the riddler

We've heard the riddle. It's about as puzzling as the case of the chicken or the egg, and just as persistent.... If a tree falls in the middle of nowhere in the woods, and there's not a lumberjack in earshot to hear it, does it really make a sound?

But with lumberjacks replaced by tractors, and fewer handsome woodsmen to saw away at the pines, we're left with the need for a new update on the age-old riddle. And when you're working your weekends away, you do a lot of thinking, and not a lot of colourful story-telling―no catching up over coffees, no stories over Starbucks nor Strongbows, no face-to-face heart-to-hearts. So, Riddle me this: If some story-worthy, unbelievably exciting thing happens to you, and you have no one to tell it to (at least by the time it slips your mind), is it really that great after all?

You tell me.

in the meantime...

from what I hear, the designer lines at h&m were supposed to be... er, fashionable.

I don't have the internship to prove it, but I can still call out bad clothes when I see 'em. Please, get out of my cheap Swedish emporium...

maybe I should get a mac

I just wrote the most deep, thought-provoking blog of my life.

.... and then Safari crashed.

Alls I can say, is that it involved this photo, and was brilliant (I'm sure). Alas, I need to get back to life in the real world before I can return to the world wide web... in the meantime, read this.. and this.

Will write later.

xoxo

the best nights are...

the kind when you need a shower before you go to bed.

quite the fortnight.

In two weeks, I've...

• Cut my hair... twice.
  
• Screamed at my credit card statement after a NY trip where the most common phrase to exit my mouth (even for Orbit at 7-11) was "charge it"... and then again, when I realized all I bought was pretty, frilly summer dresses and went out and decided I needed to buy a week's worth of practical clothing.
  
• Taken on two new jobs. Only one shall remain next week.
  
• Acquired a taste for hip-hop. Yes, even the typical rock-or-bust chicks have their phases. Nothing beats biking to beats a la the Midnight Marauders (this, of course, was aided by an ode to NYC's hip-hop scene circa 1994. Jonathan Levine makes Boyz II Men look whack, er, wiggity-wack).
  
• Bought a television after a year's hibernation. ... And then a splitter, so I can watch t.v. AND read nymag simultaneously, because that's absolutely and entirely necessary.
  
• Drank blueberry beer and a green apple beer float... and actually enjoyed the latter.
  
• Lived out of a suitcase. Not the same bag, mind you, but out of a bag for two weeks straight nonetheless.

Oh yeah. And partied with Kenneth Hotz.... God's gift to womankind.

vote yang.

Since when has cuteness factor been first priority in the opening ceremonies of the Olympics?! 

The Ancient Greeks, the originals, played naked. Dicks flopping around during discus throws aren't exactly "cutesy".

Bad teeth and children go together like milk & cookies (and hopefully the former is not a result of the latter). If you don't think these kids are cute, then go dig up your grade one class photo.