Life by PJ

Oh. Canada. (Ha! See what I did there?!)  Last Sunday my wonderful boyfriend, Jeff took me to Stratford, Ontario to see "The Merchant of Venice." You would think that Canada isn't that much different from the United States, you know, the majority of people speak English, the food seems about the same (besides poutine - fries with gravy and cheese curds on top - it's a little much for me) and the culture doesn't stray too far from ours (they love Degrassi, we love Degrassi), etc. But somehow the entire country's feel is different. The air is different, in Stratford at least. It's full of floral scents and earthy spices. Of course, this might be accredited to the Shakespeare gardens nestled in the center of the town. The people are exponentially friendlier, an example of this being the "street comedian" who interrupted mine and Jeff's brunch with a horrible joke. Even their bums are friendly. Odd, but friendly... The Shakespeare Gardens hav...

If you know me, which I have no idea if you do or not (blog views from Russia? The Netherlands? France? The more countries the merrier as far as I'm concerned), but if you do know me, you know how obsessed I am with murder mysteries. It's no secret that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's books have kept me preoccupied for hours upon hours from a very early age (that's the Sherlock Holmes stories for all of you non-mystery aficionados), but that's not where my fondness for mystery stops. My latest TV obsession, Castle, has prompted a personal reflection. Why do I find myself completely engrossed in these stories? Why is it that I just can't get enough? Stud Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Just look at that 'stache.  The odd thing concerning this fact about myself is that I absolutely can't stand watching or reading anything that makes me sad. I will not watch the local news. I refuse to watch the movie, "Up." If I wanted to drown in my own pathetic tears I w...