Well played, Facebook. Well played.

It's Valentine's Day, and since I haven't blogged since Christmas I thought I should mark the occasion with a post.  A post about Facebook.

It seems these days that Mark Zuckerberg or one of his many, many Facebook drones is taking an unseemly amount of interest in the fact that I'm single. 

I've noticed over the past few weeks that the ads for Dr. Oz's diets, Air Wick air fresheners, and vacation resorts in Puerto Vallarta appearing next to my news feed have been replaced with ads for dating sites.  Awww, Facebook is worried that I'm lonely.  (Yeah, I know, it's nothing personal -- the fact that I ticked off 'single' in my profile sets off an algorithm that populates the ad space with dating-site ads.)  But still. The variety of ads is amusing and maybe a little disturbing.

First of all, they started with the largest possible dating pool: single men.

No thanks. I don't want to meet single men. At least not online. But hey, thanks for asking.

Then they realized I'm a bit more discriminating than that, so they countered with a site advertising 'high-quality men'. 

(Because really, a girl has to be assumed to have *some* standards, and presumably would not be clicking on ads for 'low-quality men.')

Yeah, no.

Ok, they must have thought that maybe I'd like to hook up with someone old enough to know who Blondie was.

(Once, after getting my hair cut and dyed blonde, I said to my young, attractive styist, "Thanks, this looks great!  I look just like Debbie Harry!" "Who?", he said, wrinkling up his adorable forehead. "You know, the lead singer from Blondie?" *blank stare from big brown eyes* "Um, nope." Gah!)

Nice try, but still no.

OK, they upped the ante romantically: French men?

Non. Je pense que non.

OK, time to try some other niche markets. How about tempting me with a tattooed boyfriend?

Unless it's Adam Levine, no.

Faithful single policemen seeking a second chance at love?

Why can't I get them for the first chance at love? And why just policemen? Why can't I browse the faithful single accountants, management consultants, radio personalities, or cowboys?

Oh. Never mind.

But still, no.

You have to respect the imagination inherent in this, but I still wonder about the success of a marketing ploy that figures if photos of real, attractive-ish men won't do the trick, maybe women might respond to stick figures. 

  

And here's my answer.  In stick figure font.

(Wouldn't it be hilarious if some guy I met on this site came to my house and found that I *was actually* a stick figure with a triangular dress and no hands?)

(Not that I'm even remotely stick-like, sadly.)


But then Facebook finally did it. The algorithm finally kicked out something that speaks to me.  A hook that might be really, really hard to resist. 

Well played, Facebook. Well played.





Nice (n-ee-ce) was pretty nice (n-eye-ce)

Yes, I know I'm home, but you'll just have to put up with a couple more posts about what was the best vacation ever. No, wait. BEST. VACATION. EVER.

Nice (or maybe all of France, or all of Europe for that matter, I don't know for sure) is very different from Canada. Here are some random things I noticed:

• Things are smaller (apartments, washing machines, refrigerators, supermarkets), and despite the crazy traffic and bus drivers who think they're driving in a Formula One race, life is slower paced.

• Walking down the Promenade des Anglais, day or night, was the thing I liked to do best.

• Best. Croissants. Ever.
  
  Seriously.
  
  

Considering the above bullet point, it's strange that there are no overweight people here. Also, I have never seen so many attractive people in one place in my entire life.

• Skin cancer does not seem to be a major concern in Nice. Everyone seems to be tanned to a deep toasty brown. Including the one woman we saw on several days down on the beach, clad only in a teeny yellow thong, a gold chain around her waist, and a Gilligan hat. Reading Emile Zola and eating nectarines, no less.

A real Nicoise Salad doesn't have any green beans or potatoes in it. But it does have lots of tuna, olives, radishes, tomatoes, hardboiled eggs and some anchovies.

Even though the Mediterranean Sea is salty and easy to float in


I couldn't smell the sea the way you usually do at the seaside. But swimming in it will leave you all salty and with a bad case of Med Head until you shower.

Parking is a sport in Nice. People will park anywhere. On sidewalks. On corners. Double parking. You name it.

If you order anything with prawns (gambas) or shrimp (crevettes), be prepared to do some dissection. Most of the time in North America, shrimp are little pink commas of flesh when they're served to you. In Nice, they are cooked to a rosy red, but not peeled. Even in a curry sauce, you'll still see little eyes peering out at you, and little leg things waving.


The upside is, that when you take the time to peel them, they taste better than any North American shrimp.

The Hotel Negresco is a truly fascinating place. The gorgeous architecture and eclectic art make it a place not to miss.

Wine there is really cheap and really good.


Mostly we drank local varieties of rosé by the bottle, but we couldn't resist these single-serving glasses we found in the grocery store. Vive la France!

The default music type in any public space is jazz. It was playing on the tour boat we took to Monaco, and in those restaurants that had music playing. It was so nice. How nice was brought home rather forcefully when, on the long trip home, we ate lunch in a 'seafood' restaurant in the Newark airport and the soundtrack was Taylor Swift's greatest hits. Yeah.

You WILL gain weight in Nice (And Villefranche Sur Mer, and Monaco).

Oh. Yes. You. Will.

Banana split crepes. O.M.G.

Warm goat cheese salad!!

Moules et frites!!!

Calamari!!!!!!

I seem to have used up all my exclamation points.

[I don't know why this is all different colours and underlined. HTML coding and I are not friends.]




I think I would like to be dropped in a vat of Chantilly whipped cream. And left there

Lettuces, mangoes and nectarines from the greengrocers are ENORMOUS. And delicious. Really, really delicious.

The transit system -- the trains, trams and buses -- are clean and efficient and cheap. You can go a long way on the bus for a euro.

Even as far as Eze, which is probably the most picturesque place I've ever been.

This picture was taken from the boat from Nice to Monaco. You can see that Eze is perched right at the top of the mountain.

So, to sum it all up, I can see why people retire to the South of France. Thanks, Dad, I'll never forget that trip.

I can't wait to go back. Come on Lotto 649.

Sick... a pictorial history of yesterday afternoon

I'm going to need a pointy hat with a veil

This morning did not start well. Somehow the alarm didn't go off, and I slept in an hour and a half late. So it was an insane scramble to get the kids to school on time and then get to work for an early meeting with my boss.

And of course, just as I dropped the girls off, the empty light on the gas gauge came on, which meant a detour to the gas station.

But there, at the gas station, when I went in to pay for the gas after pumping it, the day got a bit brighter. First, there was the surprisingly good coffee I bought there, as I hadn't had time to make any at home. And then there was the fact that the cashier called me "My Lady."

Yeah, "My Lady." Not "Miss" or "Ms." or the dreaded "Ma'am." But "My Lady". I felt like Guinevere.

It was very courtly and unexpected:
"Just the coffee and gas?"
"Yes, thanks, just the coffee and gas. I'd like to pay with my debit card."
"Do you have an Airmiles card, My Lady?"
"Um. Oh. Yes, here it is."
"Have a good day, My Lady."
"Thanks. [trying not to giggle] You too."

I was really tempted to add "My Lord" to the end of my last sentence. But I didn't. I did smile all the way to work though.

What I did on the weekend -- Part 1: Ribs, beer and awesomeness at Bluesfest

So, we went to Québec for the weekend with friends. And we had a great time. The end.

That would be the Coles Notes version of the weekend, or the correct answer when someone at work asks, "So, what did you do on the weekend?" just to be polite. But you know me. When have I ever answered anything in less than full essay format with pictures and footnotes? Never, that's when. But in the interests of not boring you silly all at once, and stretching this story out for a couple of posts in hopes of reversing my terribly sporadic posting history of late, here is Part 1 of the story -- Ribs, beer and awesomeness at Bluesfest.

Prologue: (see, I told you I never tell any story the short way) Back in April, when the Ottawa Bluesfest (an amazing two-week-long outdoor music festival every July that I have never attended despite living in Ottawa for 13 years) announced its lineup for this summer, Becca called me and told me it was high time that I actually attended a show with her, and she suggested the B-52s. I decided she was right. And since the show was the night before the girls and I were leaving for QC, and my friend Josie would be staying with me that night, and since Josie is also a big B-52s fan, we all decided to go together.

On Thursday, Becca and Josie came up from St. Catharines and Burlington, respectively, and we ate lots of barbecued ribs and chicken and drank beer (in stinking hot temperatures) at my house and then headed off to Bluesfest to catch some acts. The Moody Blues sounded pretty good from our vantage point by one of the beer tents (never let it be said that we don't have our priorities straight) where we caught the end of their set. Then we wandered over to another stage to check out Andrew Bird, whom Bec had seen before and wanted to see again.

While Josie and I both agreed that he is a virtuoso musician, and the many, many people watching him perform were very, very appreciative, we realized that his music was not our glass of beer cup of tea, and Bec soon escorted the old people (Josie's words) to the main stage and settled us safely there (with admonishments not to go anywhere else so that she could find us again), waiting for the B-52s to start. She left to catch the rest of the Andrew Bird set and Jo and I marveled at the strange assortment of humanity there, including a really large woman dressed in a pink and champagne corset and tutu outfit (complete with a tiara), and a really, really drunk guy in a battered straw fedora and a red Hawaiian shirt covered in chili peppers who looked like he'd just been paroled from a Jimmy Buffet concert.

The concert was amazing! The crowd was dancing and singing, and the band looked and sounded like it was the 80s all over again. I couldn't say it better than this review from the Bluesfest site:

Last night LeBreton Flats was transformed into a giant go-go dance party as surf-punk New Wave staples The B-52s took the stage to headline day three of the Ottawa Bluesfest.

As the city endured soaring temperatures during the hottest day of a relentless heatwave, the B-52’s rollicked through a set that never slowed down, keeping the crowd on their feet and dancing despite a humidex reading that stayed in the forties until well after the sun had gone down.

There’s a certain quirkiness inherent in the call-and-response between pre-rap quasi-singer Fred Schneider and the harmonious pair of Kate Pierson and Cindy Wilson that permeates the B-52s sound. And while the ultra-distinctive vocal stylings have always set the band apart from the rest of the New Wave scene, it was the jangly open-tuned guitars and some remarkably tight drumming that kept things moving last night on the MBNA Stage through hits like Deadbeat Club, Roam, and the ultra-lounge party smash, Love Shack.

Bec joined us again just in time to hear Funplex, which was my fave song of the night and the three of us watched the rest of the set. We danced and sang, and at one point, Becca took a picture of Josie and me with the band in the background. The pix have yet to be uploaded, as Becca forgot her USB camera cable in Ottawa when she headed home. But fear not! Through the magic of MS Paint, I am able to recreate the picture of Josie and I at the B-52s:

Don't we look happy? We were.

After playing Love Shack, the band left. But not for long, in response to the crowd's yelling and clapping, they came back for an encore and played Planet Claire (and I'm embarrassed to say that for all these years I thought it was a synthesizer on that song, and it isn't, it's Kate Pierson's voice! And she can still do it perfectly.) and finally Rock Lobster. We all knew it was coming. The crowd went nuts. (Well, as nuts as an Ottawa crowd will ever get.) And then we filed out of the Bluesfest grounds with the rest of the crowd. As we were being swept towards the exit by the crowd, someone started mooing, which cracked me up, since the scene was sort of like a herd of cattle being driven into trucks setting off for the slaughterhouse a barn.

We ended the evening with sangria at my place before heading to bed. It was a great kick-off for the weekend.

Tomorrow: The trip from Ottawa to Québec and why maps are a Very Good Idea.