How to Be a Canadian at Disney

Can Mickey Collage

Happy (nearly completed) Canada Day, peeps!  Can’t stand the day myself – that’s what you get for a young lifetime of stupid Can Day celebrations that soured you on the entirety of the holiday (loved starting to drink terrible beer in my best red-and-white duds at eight in the morning with my friends, hated the inevitable skirmish I’d get into with my boyfriends or friends as we desperately tried to find each other 10 minutes before the fireworks in a sea of drunk(er) revelers on Parliament Hill.  Did anybody check the giant lemon?!)

Although I’ve really no reason to continue hating the holiday, since in the intervening years, I’ve had moderately alright to even not-so-terrible Canada Days and…*tails off remembering somewhat recent year grandmother tricked her into visiting relative at very remote Cabin in the Woods (actually, it’s quite a lovely cabin in the woods, totally free of elaborate death mechanisms designed to appease the pagan gods.)*

It’s basically just a day ending in Y for me, albeit one where I’m infinitely more inclined to sport a fly red-and-white mani in honour of July the 1st.  And this year I gave it a Disney twist to go along with the Canada Day video I made for our YouTube channel, Park or Perish!, which is all about being Canadian at Disney.  Which pretty much amounts to having good manners, having good manners whilst drinking, using words like “whilst” and screwing around at the Canada Pavilion at Epcot.  See for yourself below, eh?, and happiest of Canada Days to you all, my Canuck friends, all two remaining hours of it. 😉

Small last minute edit: Just as I was about to click the Publish button on this post, I heard a smattering of fireworks going off, looked out my livingroom window and was treated to a lovely, impromptu, 10 minute-long fireworks display just across the river.  So maybe not ALL of my Canada Days have been horrid. 🙂

Bedlam

For all intents and purposes, this is a nail blog, but observant observers may have noticed that Finger Candy has been most bereft of actual nail art for quite some time now.  And that’s in part because I’m currently mired in a renovation hell of my own making that I’m beginning to think I may never emerge from?  What was to be a one-week job has now sprawled out into its third week, and our second full week of no plumbing.  Having (regrettably) lived with renovation-like activities for my entire life, I knew things were not going to proceed exactly as planned and to schedule, but I’m starting to feel quite twitchy about how long this has dragged out.  Maybe I’m just worn down by REPEATED eyefuls of my naked neighbours in the bathroom change room, which I visit on average about 10 times a day.  In their defence, that is what one does in a change room – get changed, which does require a temporary state of nudity.  The key word there, however, is TEMPORARY, so I really don’t get these broads that strut around with their everything out in the breeze, gabbing with their friends, washing their unmentionables in the single sink (WE HAVE LAUNDRY FACILITIES, YOU CHEAP OLD FREAKS, HERE’S A LOONIE FOR THE WASH SO YOU CAN REMOVE YOUR GUNGY OLD GIRDLE FROM THE SPOT WHERE I’M TRYING TO BRUSH MY TEETH) or maybe chatting me up in the mirror while I attempt not to look at anything with too much specificity.  I’m (Joker) smiling in this picture, but that’s just because my brain has broken and I’m two seconds from being hauled off to Arkham Asylum.

Change Room of Fear

And while I’ve already discussed the neighbours I walked in on the other evening boning in the sauna (did I mention that?  Well, they were, and I did, and I’m now horribly traumatized) I shall never speak a word about the bathroom-encompassing biohazard that greeted me at the beginning of the week, and which I think has been the deciding factor in us coming to the conclusion that when these renos are done, we’re moving.  Our neighbours are disgusting friggin’ savages, and I’ve got zippo desire to continue tying our financial futures to these animals.  I don’t even want to share a common wall with them.

Anyhow, while I was ripping out the floor, I tore off every single one of my nails on my good hand, so I’ve been living a nail art-less existence, as has this blog.  But until I return to my adventures in acetone, I thought maybe I’d lay out how this reno process has been not going for us, so if you’re contemplating any major renovations of your own, I can thoroughly dissuade you.  Please learn from my mistakes and frustrations – some good has to come of this.

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First, the major obstacle to these renovations (new bathroom and flooring throughout) has been the fact that we live in a condo apartment.  For those of you who may not be familiar with how condos work, they’re essentially buildings or communities in which you purchase a stake, said stake being your unit.  This is really no different than purchasing a home, and indeed, we own our apartment just like you own your house.  But we also have a financial responsibility to the community or the building as a whole for things like landscaping, maintenance and building management, and we pay for a portion of those items through monthly condo fees.  This is essentially what a person with a single family home would spend every month on maintaining their property.  That’s utter bullshit, of course – our condo fees are gigantic, and I highly doubt you spend nearly $900 every month on maintaining your home, because while your teenagers might be kinda gross and perhaps not the most respectful of your space, they’re not 2,000 disgusting stranger neighbours (“You haven’t met my teenage son,” you may be saying.  Fair enough!)

So owing to the quasi-communal nature of our living arrangements and the fact that financially, we’re really all in this together, there’s a lot of oversight to living in a condo.  As in the condo board will be up your ass every second of the day, as will your neighbours, who apparently don’t mind midnight sex parties in the sauna, but will rip your head off and rat you out to the board if you so much as allow the pizza delivery dude through the front door as opposed to the SERVICE ENTRANCE (yes, we have a service entrance, like we’re effin’ slave-owners over here.)

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More specifically to this renovation, we’ve had to jump through some Cirque du Soleil-level hoops to get everything from the work, to the materials, to the actual tradespeople themselves approved.  And we have jumped through their hoops, pushing the work back by about two weeks while we sought out all the necessary approvals.  But now that everyone in the building seemingly knows our business (news travels fast in a biddy-based building, let me tell you) I feel like we’re under the microscope.  Everyone’s watching us for that moment when we break the nit-picky rules and regulations (and it’s happening; the restrictions are cumbersome.)  Like, are you really giving me shit about the tilers lugging their stuff up in a non-service elevator when I can’t book the service elevator in the first place AND someone has turned the women’s room into an abattoir?  One of these things is not like the other.  So if you live in a condo and you’re contemplating renovations, first give some thought to the reasonableness of the condo board and its (your) policies.  Because while I’m in full agreement with any rules and regulations that make life easier for my neighbours, my neighbours are not extending me the same courtesy, and trying to renovate around that simply may not be worth it.

But if you’re mental like us and you’ve decided to jump in with both feet, the best piece of advice I’ve got for you is to split up the job(s).  We quite hopefully – naively – thought that the best way to approach this was to blitz it, which means our home has been completely torn up for three weeks now.  We have the use of the sink in our kitchen, but our appliances are unplugged and sitting out in the diningroom, and our bathroom currently looks like Bosnia.  All of our possessions are sitting in boxes on our balconies and any elevated surfaces I can find, and everything is filthy all the time.  We are camping in our own home, and this campsite is a nightmare.  Please gaze upon the state of my diningroom right this very moment:

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There’s just too much planned work going on in too small a space, and we’re tripping all over ourselves.  So while it may be tempting to say, “Yes, let’s get this done as quickly and efficiently as possible,” those are two descriptors that generally don’t apply to renos, so save yourself the hassle and break it up.

But really, at the end of the day?  Maybe just, you know, DON’T.  I was visiting with a friend the other day who’s contemplating some pretty major renovations to her house, and I do believe my tales of woe scared the living crap out of her.  She really likes her house and it’s a good fit for her family, but given the extent of the proposed work, I’d recommend that they just move.  But I’m ready to move to an entirely different solar system at this point, so (frustrated) grain of salt, yeah?

So in conclusion, class, what we learned today is that if you live in a condo and you’re contemplating renovations, your best bet is to take all your money, light it on fire and then slingshot yourself into the sun.  Problem solved. 😉  See you on the other side (of my sanity), peeps.

Loner

Loner Girl

Bored, fidgety, harbouring a gigantic crush on a sketchy English moppet and in possession of coloured greasepaint pencils – what could possibly go wrong here?

I’m seriously so obsessed with this Yungblud kid.  He’s got a twenty one pilots-by-way-of-Stone Roses kind of vibe going, with a pit stop at the three-way junction where My Chemical Romance, Oasis and a Hot Topic warehouse intersect.  He’s a bizarre little munchkin with too much hair, and I’m delighted to now be aware of both his existence and music – with Keith Flint of The Prodigy now off bouncing around the afterlife, I was in need of an inexplicable crush on a transient-looking Englishman in too much guyliner, and Yungblud is providing in SPADES.

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And when I’m obsessed, well, I kind of start to dress like them.  Already working out our Halloween costumes for this year’s Mickey’s Not So Scary.  Can’t wait to see Mr. Finger Candy in pink socks, creepers, chipped black nails and nine pounds of charcoal-coloured eyeshadow.  Um, actually, wait – YES, now that I think about it, I’d kind of like to see that hot ass look right NOW… 😉  I love rock star cosplaying at Disney – in a sea of Little Mermaids, it’s fun to be an Ursula.  If Ursula was into sketchy English yobs with insanity hair and a major set of crazy eyes.  Which she might be.  I mean, I don’t know her life.

But for right now, I’ll content myself with this test run on a Loner-esque look, complete with face paint and my best approximation of Yungblud’s batshit, gravity-defying coif (it’s like Robert Smith got his hair did by Edward Scissorhands.)  We’ll revisit this at Halloween – d’you know what I mean, yeah?

So Much Hairspray 2

Dumbass. Also Ooh, Pretty Ring!

Beaded Ring 2

I’m quite glad I did this manicure, inspired by an old beaded ring I recently dug out of jewelry box purgatory, earlier in the week, before I suffered one of those dumbass injuries that smarts like the dickens, leads to the temporary uselessness of at least a couple of limbs and leaves you rightfully questioning the life decisions that led up to this moment.  Like the decision to try to brute force my refrigerator out of its nook without realizing that it was quite firmly caught on something.  Or the decision, once I noted that it was quite firmly caught on something, to try to HULK it up and over the obstruction, like I was The Rock’s friggin’ weenie Canadian cousin or something.  I think you can see where this is going.

Which would be straight on through to Dumbass Injury Land, where I’m now sitting in quite uncomfortable forearm agony.  Yes, my FOREARMS.  Two days on and I still can’t register any sensation in my hands, wrists or forearms other than pain.  I can’t form a tight fist without sort of feeling like I’m about to pass out.  Typing this has proven to be a rather exquisite form of torture!

Anyhow, super glad I got this one done before I succumbed to my own idiocy.  Seriously kids, don’t try to dead lift your large appliances; it will not end well.

Right, so this manicure was inspired by this ring I bought, oh, 20 or so years ago from a designer who worked and sold out of the Byward Market Building in Ottawa, Ontario.  I add that detail because I cannot remember her name and I don’t believe she’s even working out of Ottawa any more; her booth in the Market Building disappeared many years ago (but if anyone knows of her name, please hit me up!)  I’ve actually got quite a few of her pieces, and they’re all weird, colourful and maybe just a little bit too much.  Wait till you see the beaded choker I’ll hopefully be able to show to you in a few days’ time once any sensation other than pain has returned to my forearms.  Until then, as always, nail art!

Beaded Ring 1

 

The Shape of Water

The Shape of Water 1

Neptune nails.  Both in terms of inspiration, and also the unbelievably gorgeous base polish I used here, Enchanted Polish’s Neptune.

Shape of Water 2

Also, given The Shape of Water’s best picture win at this past Sunday’s Oscars, it seemed an appropriate time – nay, the only time! – to make this “In love with a fishman” Disney joke.  Good lawd, that Triton is jacked!  His arms-day routine must be nuts.

Mermaid Collage

Where’s Your Head At?

Where's Your Head At Fingers

Both the loose – so loose – inspiration for these nails (the album cover art of the Basement Jaxx’s Where’s Your Head At?) and also a valid question for this blogger and nail artist: Where exactly WAS my head at, because this manicure is pretty terrible!  Bad colours, cruddy brushwork, ugly lighting.  And this was actually my second attempt at this design today; you should(n’t) have seen the first one.  Eh, sometimes these things don’t work out, but a bit of practice never hurt (and I’m sorely out of practice; too much post-vacation reminiscing and not enough nail art-ing.) 😉