Bagel on my mind

Days like today, I wish I were in New York.

Actually. Scrap that. EVERY day I wish I were in New York. But today, more than usual. The weather is overcast and it's raining (so moody and broody). I'm listening to Stacy Kent's Dreamsville on an endless loop which makes me want to book a ticket to the Big Apple right away and sit in a (smokeless) jazz club. And I have a hankering for bagels. Which is, really, the most pressing reason of them all.

I haven't had a good bagel since 2005. When in New York, I lived off them (though, let's face it - San Francisco gives the Big Apple a run for its money when it comes to boiled bread). Later in Montreal, my friends - Emilie and Julie - introduced me to this fantastic bakery St-Viateur Bagel & Cafe in the Plateau that sold them by the truckloads. Bliss. There's nothing quite like a toasted bagel slathered in cream cheese and a hot cup of Joe on a winter's day. Hello extra pounds! Since then, it's been like a bagel-dry state back home in Perth.

For the last few weeks, I've had bagel on my mind. Friday night, I had egg 'n' cheese bagel on the brain. I have a flier of Noah's Bagels in my office stuck to the wall right beneath a picture of Adam Hills. Now that's a strange concept.

One of my colleagues at university told me about this well-kept secret of a bagel place in Yokine which is apparently the Jewish quarter of the city. News to me, which means I really should get out more.

Sunday morning - I rug up and make that 50 minute one-way drive to indulge in my fetish. Besh Fresh may have saved my life. Or at least my sanity until I make it up to the northern hemisphere again for another trip. Hello more pounds! My excuse: 'insulating' for the winter.

When I watch Ugly Betty in the evening, good-looking-boss-who-knows-it-Daniel asks Betty to get him... a bagel with cream cheese. It's fate I tell ya. Or something like that.

All hail the mighty bagel. It's boiled. It's baked. It's big and it's beautiful. It's the new religion. If it worked for Jedi...

And yes. I know Montreal isn't New York.

How do you solve a problem like Christina?

I have a friend. He asked me if it was every girl's fantasy to be a nun. I looked at him strange. And then I went and dressed up as an Escapee From The Convent.

Yeah. And I thought he was strange.

It was that time of year again when Sing-A-Long Sound Of Music came to town. Tickets had been bought weeks before. Costumes had been hired. And I was ready to sing and climb every mountain with the rest of the local nutters here who have a hankering for apple strudel, men in Lederhosens and singing (really badly) with other people (who are also singing really badly).

I have a confession though. I'm not a virgin Sing-A-Long Sound Of Music (SSOM) attendee. I won tickets several years ago. I took my mother who was unaware of the fact that it was pretty much karaoke. She was, however, rather perplexed why I was dressed up before we left the house. I use 'dressed up' in a very loose way. At my first foray into the SSOM I wore a brown Op Shop dress, an old school shirt, sandals with socks and I had a kerchief on to go with a blonde wig with two pigtails that went down to my ankles. Now what I was supposed to be - I'm not quite sure. I looked like the love child of a Viking and Girl Scout with a gene gone wrong. But I did look ridiculous enough to pass for having 'made an effort' when it came to getting into the whole cosplay.


This time around, I was prepared and I took friends - Melissa and Caroline - who I prepared the event for. Nuns On The Run. I looked less ridiculous than the last time. But I do love my kitsch and B-grade costuming skills (actually more like C-grade). I made a crucifix to wear. Hello paddle-popsticks! Mel was apprehensive that we would look odd and suggested we park close to the venue and run from car to the theatre. When we got the Regal Theatre - anyone who wasn't in costume stood out. Talk about peer pressure. Honey - where's your habit?

I didn't win any prize for best dressed. I looked pedestrian alongside the other 50 nuns who were there that night. Best dressed went to the goats. Somewhere out there, someone's missing their car-seat covers.

As for the rest of the night, we sang and clapped, we yelled and cheered. We booed when the Nazis came on scene. We whooped when Maria made those kids' play clothes of curtains. We popped our poppers when Maria and Captain Von Trapp kissed (which is a lot less dirty than it sounds). We yodelled with the lonely goatherd. And I think we all regressed to about the age of 8.

Not bad for a night out, eh? When we walk to the carpark after the show, still dressed in our nun outfits, some drunken moron screams out "Are you a virgin?!" I can picture it in the papers tomorrow:

"Youth Stabbed To Death With Paddle-Popstick Crucifix By Nun With Bad Habit".