So.... My name's Trish. You may recall me from such blogs as "Brilliant title to go here," and such rants as "Jane Austen men would never pull this kind of shit."
And I've been a bad blogger, all silent-like. I owe apologies.
Now, no excuses, but I was all busy with the election. The Canadian one. For those not paying attention, it went relatively well for some. Rather poorly for others. And in Edmonton, things got all twisty -- paraphrasing my colleague Darcy, the NDP lobbed a pumpkin at the heart of oil country.
Then, I went to Paris.
(Insert sigh here. Loved Paris. Loved it loved it.)
Let me introduce you to Shakespeare and Co., possibly the most fabulous bookstore ever.
While in Paris, my friend Shannon and I went to a discussion group one night where participants speak first in English for an hour, then in French after a couple readings. Somehow, the question was raised of whether there were any famous Canadians of note who don't have really large breasts.
"Margaret Atwood!" we cried.
Yes, but gross.
Jim Carrey. Mike Myers.
The conversation moved on for the most part, although the hilarious Brit taking part in the discussion kept shaking his head at us. "I just can't think of any great Canadians," he said (I'm paraphrasing, though, and he was joking, so no judging).
Who? Everyone asked.
"Hockey! L'hockey? Hockey!"
No, the kind Brit explained. Hockey's not really an international sport now, is it? Not like football (soccer) or tennis.
Mike Weir? we tried.
How about Lester B. Pearson? He won the Nobel Peace Prize after all? Forty years ago? Never mind.