Regular readers will be fully aware that I am quite 'au fait' with what is cleverly described as 'social media'. Only last week I had a conversation with a client about it that went a bit like this:
Client: We have to do ... the social media.
Me: The social media?
Client: Yes. The social media.
Me: Hmm.
Client: Can you do social media?
Me: Do it? What do you mean, can I 'do social media'?
Client: Yes. Do you know how to do it?
Most of the time, clients say, "I know, let's do a Facebook fan page!", and you ask them why and they say "because Facebook IS social media". Faced with that kind of assertion, the need to explain dissipates rapidly and thoughts turn to the olden days when you could choose from TV, radio, press or print, young people were respectful of their elders, and offices in advertising agencies were routinely equipped with full bars, humidors and Christina Hendricks*.
The thing is, I do know why fan pages exist. They exist so that fans of things (i.e., you, my loyal readers) can express your appreciation (aka love/lust) for things, e.g. this blog. Luckily, after many months of hoping that someone, somewhere, would listen to my plea, someone I know has made a thing on Facebook and it is all about me!!!
It is super. You can go there by going here. Sign up! You know it makes sense! And if you do it, YOU will be able to look your client in the eye and tell him or her that yes, you can do social media.
**UPDATE** Beady-eyed readers will have noticed that the link supposedly taking you to the Facebook did not, in fact, take you to the Facebook. Now it does. Yes indeed.
* I have recently added Christina Hedricks to my laminated list .
Sunday, November 08, 2009
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
I deal with neighbours
I have just composed this letter to our neighbours. It is cowardly, but I have no choice, other than taking archery lessons and remaining open to being imprisoned for animal cruelty.
Dear Neighbours
I am sure you know that your dogs are noisy. After all, you have to live with them. But that is your choice. It is not our choice to live with them, and yet somehow we feel that we do.
For about $5 you can buy a water pistol (Toys R Us is good, but you may be lucky at Loblaws). With that water pistol, you can train your dogs to stop barking so that we can get some sleep after 10pm and/or sleep past 6.30am in the morning.
This is how you do it:
1. Put water in the water pistol.
2. When the dog barks (but is NOT looking at you), squirt him/her with water.
3. Repeat until the dog(s) figure out that when they bark, bad shit happens.
You may have to do this for a couple of weeks before they get the message, but it’ll be worth it (for the entire street) if you do figure it out.
If you don’t want to spend $5 on a water pistol, the recycling goes out on Monday night. I’m sure you can maybe get a used washing up liquid bottle from someone’s box and use that.
A Neighbour
It is a sure sign that I am 40, which I am; other signs include:
- arthritis medicine and indigestion tablets in the bathroom cupboard
- aching joints
- going 'aaaah' when I sit down
- thinking young people are idiots
- thinking I should get a pension
- doing embroidery
- knitting
- making jam, bread, etc
- actually enjoying Oprah magazine (whilst remaining healthily British about the whole thing)
- waiting 'until we've got the money to do it properly'
- not seeing the point of holidays involving rucksacks
- tutting at the neighbours
- ordering M&S tights online from England
- starting to read murder mystery books (does Kate Atkinson count? And someone gave me a Barbara Vine that looks tempting)
Hoorah! I'm going for a little nap.
Zzzzzz.
Dear Neighbours
I am sure you know that your dogs are noisy. After all, you have to live with them. But that is your choice. It is not our choice to live with them, and yet somehow we feel that we do.
For about $5 you can buy a water pistol (Toys R Us is good, but you may be lucky at Loblaws). With that water pistol, you can train your dogs to stop barking so that we can get some sleep after 10pm and/or sleep past 6.30am in the morning.
This is how you do it:
1. Put water in the water pistol.
2. When the dog barks (but is NOT looking at you), squirt him/her with water.
3. Repeat until the dog(s) figure out that when they bark, bad shit happens.
You may have to do this for a couple of weeks before they get the message, but it’ll be worth it (for the entire street) if you do figure it out.
If you don’t want to spend $5 on a water pistol, the recycling goes out on Monday night. I’m sure you can maybe get a used washing up liquid bottle from someone’s box and use that.
A Neighbour
It is a sure sign that I am 40, which I am; other signs include:
- arthritis medicine and indigestion tablets in the bathroom cupboard
- aching joints
- going 'aaaah' when I sit down
- thinking young people are idiots
- thinking I should get a pension
- doing embroidery
- knitting
- making jam, bread, etc
- actually enjoying Oprah magazine (whilst remaining healthily British about the whole thing)
- waiting 'until we've got the money to do it properly'
- not seeing the point of holidays involving rucksacks
- tutting at the neighbours
- ordering M&S tights online from England
- starting to read murder mystery books (does Kate Atkinson count? And someone gave me a Barbara Vine that looks tempting)
Hoorah! I'm going for a little nap.
Zzzzzz.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
I share with my adoring readers one of the finest wedding speeches ever written
There is more to come on the subject of our wedding (for e.g. some more photographs). In the meantime, we have been remembering (with great fondness) some of the miraculously good speeches made by our dearest friends: so funny in parts that I weed my Spanx, and so English in others that the French Canadians could do no more than mutter "quoi?" and focus on their cheese(s).
Here is one of them, written by our dear friends (academics, comedians, parents of our god-children, and purveyors of all that is right in the world). I have edited it very little. I hope you enjoy it. (Regular readers will know that my true name is Lucy, and that the pathologist goes by the name of JM, when he is not being called either Boris or Master.)
"We like to think of Lucy and JM as the Sapphire and Steel of Montreal, the Laverne and Shirley if you will, the omelette and the fruit of the breakfast plate, the poutine and the chips, the Céline and the René.
JM is a creation straight from the pages of a modern romance novel, a Mills and Boon vision of manliness dreamt up by a fruity female writer. Picture the scene. An athletic mountain-biking French Canadian vet with a wide knowledge of Californian wines and the inside track on a lamb’s uterus, sweeps the Lady off her feet in the misty, cobbled streets of the ancient English cathedral town of Canterbury. (When I say 'sweep off her feet', I of course mean ply her with 6 gin and tonics and then dare her to a game of competitive spinning, resulting in lying face down on ye cobbled streets in the rain. This was Lucy’s first experience of a well-used Montrealian mating ritual. As we can tell from today’s happy event, it wasn’t to be her last.)
JM’s animal magnetism first sent the Monkey synapses sparking, leading her to emit her infamous high frequency ‘man growl’ – inaudible to most, but a siren’s call to her victim, also works in the animal kingdom. Photo evidence abounds of his mesmeric talents to stun a squirrel into a ‘paws up’ pose, his ability to render a caterpillar immobile for up to six minutes and to make almost any form of canine growl ‘sausages’ to order. Of course all this is done with a glint of his gunmetal grey eyes, for it is well known that he is yoda-like in his verbal delivery. (Once, after a 10 minute presentation on porcine dendentrics he was rendered incapable of speech for 2 weeks. Tru fax my friends, tru fax.)
But this ability to communicate as a latter day Dr Doolittle also extends to the plant world and his gardening prowess. The size of his marrow is legendary, as are his plums. Lucy has never been happier than whilst foraging with abandon in his well stocked garden.
But Lucy too has a great affinity with outdoor life. Many a time Lucy has watched American Idol with a rabid fox who has crept in from her former London garden and spent a merry half hour with her in her lounge whilst she peruses Simon Cowell’s nasal hair. She’s generous with animals too - lending her Fendi handbags to foxes to savage in her garden, talking to small dogs she meets on the street like Mary Poppins on crystal meth with a ‘come along poppit, keep up keep up’, and she always takes great pleasure in spotting animals who closely resemble their owners. She was the first to muse that Pamela Anderson does have a cute pair of puppies.
Lucy and JM are the meeting of two great forces, the Western seaboard squeezing at a few juicy Rockies. Without JM, Lucy would have no idea of the concept that you can’t leave your shopping in the car not in case it thaws, but because it will all freeze. He has taught her the joy of spaghetti suppers, and that it is not compulsory that risottos need to be served to guests after 11pm having been plied with several large turbo shandies beforehand. He has patiently month by month, year by year taken away all the grown-up stuff that a real lady should not be bothered with – MOT-ing the car, filing the cds into alphabetical order, cleaning the gutters – real daddy bear man stuff. In short, he is her knight in shining armour, or given his DIY boiler suit look, her shite in nylon armour, the Becks to her Posh.
In return, she has introduced JM to a whole new world of Englishness – a fondness for poorly insulated housing, having an ‘urgh, lovely cup of tea’ on 20 minute cycles, looking at a slight snow flurry and shouting ‘shitting hell we’re in a fucking white out we’re all going to die’. She has saved him from continuing to commit the fashion crime of wearing brown penny loafers with black shiney trousers, of keeping on his ear mufflers indoors and of sporting his vintage 1996 Alanis Morrisette ‘Jagged Little Pill’ blouson tour jacket when meeting friends for dinner. Sadly, she will never be able to rid him of his strange fascination with cutting his own hair. Lucy has, in short, turned him into the French Canadian stud muffin that we see before us today. A moment of quiet reflecion whilst we, as one, rest our gaze upon Jean-Martin. A chorus of "For he’s a jolly good fellow…"
As for the blushing bride well, the now dirtily titled Mrs Lucy Monkey, she is a phenomenon. Part boho flapper girl, part deep thinker, part house mistress, part cockney second hand car dealer. Imagine Martha Wainwright, soused with Steven Pinker mixed with Naomi Klein with a side order of Conrad Black. She can present an astounding array of burps, trumps and underarm fart noises. She can bump and grind like a bad bad Jamaican girl. You knows it sister. Step it girl. She can knock out a triumphant array of cakes and savoury snacks. Knows the method to produce a killer gin. Can make us laugh more than it was previously thought humanly possible. She has the prettiest eyes and the softest skin of a lady what I have ever known. Just thinking of her makes me feel happy. She has an exquisite taste in clothes, jewels, music, poetry and all the fighting arts. She knows more rude words than the progeny of a Fleet Street papparazi and a filthy minded aristocrat. Exceptionally modest, pure of heart, a caring and loving godmother to our children, and a huzzah to JM for becoming a godfather to our nippers.
A friend for life, indeed friends for life. For this happy union today cements the two tribes into one unique unstoppable force. Ability to cook and take the piss out of each other, check. Joint ability to discern a snow shoe from a tennis racket, check. Stamina to fly to England from Canada and race around to see all the millions of people who want you all to themselves, check. A love of hideous museums, bizarre spectacles and odd encounters with the uniquely blessed of this world. Double check.
Ladies and gentlemen, madams et messieurs, please raise your glasses and whoop yourselves senseless as I present to you Mr and Mrs Monkey."
Here is one of them, written by our dear friends (academics, comedians, parents of our god-children, and purveyors of all that is right in the world). I have edited it very little. I hope you enjoy it. (Regular readers will know that my true name is Lucy, and that the pathologist goes by the name of JM, when he is not being called either Boris or Master.)
"We like to think of Lucy and JM as the Sapphire and Steel of Montreal, the Laverne and Shirley if you will, the omelette and the fruit of the breakfast plate, the poutine and the chips, the Céline and the René.
JM is a creation straight from the pages of a modern romance novel, a Mills and Boon vision of manliness dreamt up by a fruity female writer. Picture the scene. An athletic mountain-biking French Canadian vet with a wide knowledge of Californian wines and the inside track on a lamb’s uterus, sweeps the Lady off her feet in the misty, cobbled streets of the ancient English cathedral town of Canterbury. (When I say 'sweep off her feet', I of course mean ply her with 6 gin and tonics and then dare her to a game of competitive spinning, resulting in lying face down on ye cobbled streets in the rain. This was Lucy’s first experience of a well-used Montrealian mating ritual. As we can tell from today’s happy event, it wasn’t to be her last.)
JM’s animal magnetism first sent the Monkey synapses sparking, leading her to emit her infamous high frequency ‘man growl’ – inaudible to most, but a siren’s call to her victim, also works in the animal kingdom. Photo evidence abounds of his mesmeric talents to stun a squirrel into a ‘paws up’ pose, his ability to render a caterpillar immobile for up to six minutes and to make almost any form of canine growl ‘sausages’ to order. Of course all this is done with a glint of his gunmetal grey eyes, for it is well known that he is yoda-like in his verbal delivery. (Once, after a 10 minute presentation on porcine dendentrics he was rendered incapable of speech for 2 weeks. Tru fax my friends, tru fax.)
But this ability to communicate as a latter day Dr Doolittle also extends to the plant world and his gardening prowess. The size of his marrow is legendary, as are his plums. Lucy has never been happier than whilst foraging with abandon in his well stocked garden.
But Lucy too has a great affinity with outdoor life. Many a time Lucy has watched American Idol with a rabid fox who has crept in from her former London garden and spent a merry half hour with her in her lounge whilst she peruses Simon Cowell’s nasal hair. She’s generous with animals too - lending her Fendi handbags to foxes to savage in her garden, talking to small dogs she meets on the street like Mary Poppins on crystal meth with a ‘come along poppit, keep up keep up’, and she always takes great pleasure in spotting animals who closely resemble their owners. She was the first to muse that Pamela Anderson does have a cute pair of puppies.
Lucy and JM are the meeting of two great forces, the Western seaboard squeezing at a few juicy Rockies. Without JM, Lucy would have no idea of the concept that you can’t leave your shopping in the car not in case it thaws, but because it will all freeze. He has taught her the joy of spaghetti suppers, and that it is not compulsory that risottos need to be served to guests after 11pm having been plied with several large turbo shandies beforehand. He has patiently month by month, year by year taken away all the grown-up stuff that a real lady should not be bothered with – MOT-ing the car, filing the cds into alphabetical order, cleaning the gutters – real daddy bear man stuff. In short, he is her knight in shining armour, or given his DIY boiler suit look, her shite in nylon armour, the Becks to her Posh.
In return, she has introduced JM to a whole new world of Englishness – a fondness for poorly insulated housing, having an ‘urgh, lovely cup of tea’ on 20 minute cycles, looking at a slight snow flurry and shouting ‘shitting hell we’re in a fucking white out we’re all going to die’. She has saved him from continuing to commit the fashion crime of wearing brown penny loafers with black shiney trousers, of keeping on his ear mufflers indoors and of sporting his vintage 1996 Alanis Morrisette ‘Jagged Little Pill’ blouson tour jacket when meeting friends for dinner. Sadly, she will never be able to rid him of his strange fascination with cutting his own hair. Lucy has, in short, turned him into the French Canadian stud muffin that we see before us today. A moment of quiet reflecion whilst we, as one, rest our gaze upon Jean-Martin. A chorus of "For he’s a jolly good fellow…"
As for the blushing bride well, the now dirtily titled Mrs Lucy Monkey, she is a phenomenon. Part boho flapper girl, part deep thinker, part house mistress, part cockney second hand car dealer. Imagine Martha Wainwright, soused with Steven Pinker mixed with Naomi Klein with a side order of Conrad Black. She can present an astounding array of burps, trumps and underarm fart noises. She can bump and grind like a bad bad Jamaican girl. You knows it sister. Step it girl. She can knock out a triumphant array of cakes and savoury snacks. Knows the method to produce a killer gin. Can make us laugh more than it was previously thought humanly possible. She has the prettiest eyes and the softest skin of a lady what I have ever known. Just thinking of her makes me feel happy. She has an exquisite taste in clothes, jewels, music, poetry and all the fighting arts. She knows more rude words than the progeny of a Fleet Street papparazi and a filthy minded aristocrat. Exceptionally modest, pure of heart, a caring and loving godmother to our children, and a huzzah to JM for becoming a godfather to our nippers.
A friend for life, indeed friends for life. For this happy union today cements the two tribes into one unique unstoppable force. Ability to cook and take the piss out of each other, check. Joint ability to discern a snow shoe from a tennis racket, check. Stamina to fly to England from Canada and race around to see all the millions of people who want you all to themselves, check. A love of hideous museums, bizarre spectacles and odd encounters with the uniquely blessed of this world. Double check.
Ladies and gentlemen, madams et messieurs, please raise your glasses and whoop yourselves senseless as I present to you Mr and Mrs Monkey."
Saturday, October 24, 2009
I wish you all a premature happy Halloween
I welcome you to the world of Canadian (specifically Quebecois) Halloween cakes. It will be nearly impossible for you to distinguish between those from the pikey rural supermarket and those from the fancy-schmancy patisserie, of that I am sure.
My particular favourite: take an Opera cake (more or less), cover in fondant icing and call it "Phantom of the Opera". NB: some of the Phantoms of the Opera have one eye, some two.
My particular favourite: take an Opera cake (more or less), cover in fondant icing and call it "Phantom of the Opera". NB: some of the Phantoms of the Opera have one eye, some two.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
I still do not have photograph of our smashing top-rate wedding in which you can actually see our gurning faces
But here, to whet your dirty appetites, is a picture sent by my oldest pal Anna with the accompanying note:
"I'm thinking the flash effect looks like the sparkling of a hundred fairies at the moment of Love".
I think she is right!!
"I'm thinking the flash effect looks like the sparkling of a hundred fairies at the moment of Love".
I think she is right!!
(Multilingual readers will have noted with joy the "Exit" sign hovering over both our heads. Yes indeed.)
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