Chic Galleria » Kristel Gillies

Wasting Away: My Life as a Millionaire

Kristel Gillies — Thu, 11 Nov 2010 07:17:41 +0000

MC Hammer did it. Cyndi Lauper did it. And Donald Trump did it, three times over. No, I’m not referring to their weddings or divorces, I’m referring to the fact all three have, at one point or another, fallen from fame and fortune (well, at least fortune) and claimed bankruptcy.

For the longest time, I wondered how a person could possibly go through millions, upon millions, of dollars until they, quite literally, had nothing left. After all, most celebrities could live in a multimillion dollar home, be mortgage free and have money in the bank so what else could they possibly spend vast amounts of money on? I imagined island retreats and French chateaus but, even then, couldn’t they sell a property or two and get back on track? Surely banks don’t give mortgages to people who can’t afford them, right? (Hello United States subprime mortgage crisis!) And how many luxury vehicles can one person possibly own? These are the questions I used to ponder every time I heard of another Hollywood hipster going broke. I say ‘used to’ because, these days, I can actually see how it might happen.

If I had ample supplies of money the first thing I would do is buy a new bra. Every day. Okay, maybe not every day but every second day would definitely be nice. Sure, a bra can be washed but it’s never really the same after it’s been through a rinse cycle or two. The straps become stretched and before you know it the enclosures are on the last notch and the shoulder straps are as far as they will go, the cups become misshapen (because it has to be the cups and not the things that go inside the cups) and what once lifted no longer lifts, what once pulled no longer pulls and what was once held up is now sagging. Having a new bra every day wouldn’t just be for my benefit, it would be for the benefit of all mankind, with the emphasis on ‘man’.

Another thing I would most likely squander my money on is food. (Followed shortly, I’m sure, by the debilitating cost of liposuction) I wouldn’t buy vast amounts of food but, rather, I would focus on the quality thereof. I have it on good authority that sometimes the best food does not actually adhere to the 100 mile diet, although I do appreciate the concept. Case in point? I went to Amsterdam and brought home the most amazing cheese. And have you been to Belgium lately, the birthplace of both chocolate and waffles? They even have waffles dipped in chocolate! If that’s not a reason to charter a plane then, quite frankly, I’m not sure what is. Perhaps a poutine from Montreal? A pizza from Florence? And Indian food from, well, India? Needless to say, some of my money would be spent offsetting my undeniably large carbon footprint. On that note, can a person actually buy Central Park? For environmental reasons, of course.

In all seriousness, though (because this article has been nothing but serious, up until now), I wouldn’t actually spend money on tumescent liposuction. Instead, I would indulge in a personal chef to cook meals that are both delicious and healthy. I truly believe such a thing exists and, surely, having a personal chef must be the only reason why I weigh more than Jennifer Love Hewitt. I’ve seen recipes so I know eating great tasting, healthy food is possible. It just looks rather labor intensive and seems to require ingredients I can’t even pronounce, let alone afford to buy based on my current income.

Other things I might be willing to spend money on include the daily replacement of facecloths, pillow cases and pretty much anything that gets put directly against one’s body, including, but not limited to, a mattress. You can flip it, you can rotate it but no matter which way you spin it the idea of spending countless hours of each day, for years on end, lying on the same unwashed surface, night after night, tends to disturb me. The same thing goes for pillows, as some people’s pillows remain in their home longer than even their children do. Kids, after all, go off to college but once feathers (or a down-like alternative) enter a pillow they rarely come out so unless you make it a habit to replace your pillow or participate in some hard core pillow fights decades can actually pass before a pillow has enough wear and tear to warrant a replacement. I hear Oprah uses a brand new pillow every night so if she can do it, surely, so can I. Once I’m swimming in money, of course.

And what kind of millionaire would I be without a vacation property or two? There’s an island in Tahiti, complete with cabana boy, with my name on it, I’m sure. And should I chose to partake in a villa nestled in the Swiss Alps I am quite certain there is one more frivolous thing I would feel inclined to spend my money on: a heated toilet seat. I live in the prairies of Canada and have been through many a winter so believe me when I tell you there is nothing more shocking in the wee hours of a cold December morning than having to use the facilities. It would be nice if at least the ‘facilities’ could be at room temperature, if not higher.

All in all, I think it would be money well spent. Although I know a few bankruptcy lawyers, IRA agents and washed-up has-beens that might disagree.

Kristel is a Physicist, computer programmer and blogger, writing about everything from depression to dating… and sometimes even both! She lives in Saskatchewan, Canada and can be contacted at LastGrlStanding@gmail.com

Photo credit © Twmedia | Dreamstime.com

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The Life of a Singleton: The Dilemma of Take-Out

Kristel Gillies — Thu, 14 Oct 2010 07:39:23 +0000

Part of the downfall of being single is eating out. And by ‘eating out’ I actually mean ‘ordering in’, otherwise known as take-out. It can pose quite the dilemma for someone who lives alone and it has literally been years since I’ve ordered Chinese food.

This isn’t to say it’s been years since I’ve actually had Chinese food (no, I’m not that deprived), it’s just been that long since I’ve ordered it in. I miss the fun of bringing home a big brown, slightly grease-stained, paper bag that you rip in to (I mean, really, do they need so many staples?) to reveal round corrugated metal containers with cardboard tops. There’s something endearing about having to patiently unroll the top. Trying, without fail, to remove the lid when it looks like it might come off when, really, you should just learn to fully unroll the whole thing to save yourself the trouble. And while it’s great to have the ‘combo for 1′ meal when out for lunch with co-workers it’s not nearly the same as ordering a variety of dishes such as chicken fried rice, egg foo young and kung pao chicken. And no wobbly table with vinyl tablecloth while being surrounded by poor decor could possibly compare to eating out of the container while watching a movie and having a picnic in the living room. And don’t forget the leftovers. Nothing beats eating a spring roll by the light of the refrigerator in the middle of the night when, really, you only got out of bed to get a glass of water. And fortune cookies aren’t nearly as exciting when you only have one to choose from, it’s only when there are 5 or 6 do you truly feel the pressure of being in control of your own fate.

And then there’s pizza. Every time I order it’s the same routine. I psych myself up to order a medium but, for some reason, I feel like if I order the medium they’ll know I’m ordering for only myself and judge me. I know I should get the small instead but, clearly, the medium value in terms of cost per slice. So, in an effort to fool restaurant staff that could probably care less, I somehow always end up ordering a large to fool everyone into thinking I’m not dining alone. Somehow the pizza tends to wear off when you’ve had it every day for six days, as both breakfast and supper.

The last time I ordered pizza I got a half and half. Half pepperoni, half vegetarian. The fellow who took my order said “let me guess.. meat for the man, veggies for the lady?”. How does one respond to that? I pondered saying “no, it’s all for me I just like variety, don’t be so sexist” but thought better of it and, instead, laughed and said “exactly” when, really, I died inside a little bit at the sheer patheticness of the situation. After all, who wouldn’t rather have someone to share their pizza pie with? Preferably someone who likes the crusts the exact opposite amount as you because that, my friend, is a perfect match.

Sometimes, if I’m particularly lazy or it’s the middle of winter in the cold, cold prairies, I’ll get it delivered, being sure to yell “pizza’s here” to my pretend boyfriend before opening the door. I do this for two reasons: partially so the delivery driver won’t think I’m pathetic (on the off chance the guy who took my order on the phone hasn’t already told him I was) and partially to avoid the risk of having an episode of Law and Order SVU based on me, with Olivia saying to Elliot “all she wanted was a pizza” as they stand over my naked body, an unopened pizza box lying beside my corpse. Because I hear most murders moonlight as delivery drivers for the extra cash. And as much as I may enjoy the thought of Tina Fey winning the Emmy for guest actress in a drama series while portraying me (because, surely, she would jump at the opportunity) sometimes I just can’t be bothered to go through the rigmarole of eating in. Which is why I had hot dogs for supper tonight. After all, I’ve had pizza for the last 6 days, I was due for a change.

Photo credit © Jonathan Ross | Dreamstime.com

What’s in A Name: The Art of Naming Babies

Kristel Gillies — Thu, 14 Oct 2010 07:14:20 +0000

Fall. The season of colorful leaves, warm sweaters, pumpkin spice lattes and a plethora of new television shows. Having been a fan of Arrested Development I recently tuned in to Will Arnett’s new show, Running Wilde, to find it narrated by a precocious child named Puddle. That’s right, the name of the character is Puddle. And while I find this to be a very endearing nickname I’m not entirely sure I enjoy it as a first name. And, yes, I’m aware it’s a fictional character and most likely stems from the fact she was born and raised in the jungle but I can’t help but wonder if it’s that far from reality when Gwyneth Paltrow’s daughter is named Apple and Rachel Griffiths’ son is named Banjo, not to mention rock star Keith Richard’s choice for his daughter, Dandelion. Hey Keith… you know that’s a weed, right? And possible plant-like alternatives include Rose, Lily and Violet?

I have a fairly common name. Or at least it was in the eighties (cough-seventies-cough). The spelling of my name, however, is quite unique and while I have grown an appreciation this uniqueness I must admit that I hated it as a child. My name was, and still is, forever misspelled, often mispronounced (FYI… I am not French, you need not put the emphasis on the last syllable) and, to this day, I have never had a toothbrush, pencil, coffee mug or shot glass with my name on it. Still, I came out of childhood just fine and I am no worse for wear. Then again, my name isn’t Tabooger, like Dan Cortese’s offspring. And in case you were wondering… it’s a boy. And I’d be willing to bet his nickname isn’t ‘Tab’.

I find it quite lazy that George Foreman named all five of his sons and two of his daughters George and wonder if David Duchovny and Tea Leoni were simply put on the spot and didn’t know what else to choose when they named their Kyd. It all makes me wonder… is it a parent’s right to name their child whatever they please or is it a privilege to be given the honor of defining a person for the rest of their lives? I’ve heard it said “what’s in a name” but I’m quite sure a person is shaped, however minutely, by what they are called. After all, I may not be nearly outgoing if my parents had chosen to name me Princess Poopy Pants and while a parent can try their best to raise their children to be proud of who they are there’s no escaping the fact that children can be cruel and having a name like ‘Fifi Trixibell’ really doesn’t help things.

I also wonder if a person’s name can lead them towards certain occupations. Take Shannyn Sossamon’s son, for example. I have a feeling his career path might be pretty well laid out, considering his name is Audio Science. That’s right, his name more closely resembles an aspect of technology than the forename of a human being but whatever line of work he may one day choose I have no doubt his parents will encourage him, even if he decides to change professions with Jason Lee’s son, Pilot Inspektor. Although I can’t really which one’s better than the other.

Back in 2008, a nine-year-old Australian girl became ward of the state so she could have her name changed. Apparently she was not impressed her parents had named her ‘Talula Does the Hula From Hawaii’. Sadly the article citing this fact lists other poor choices in names, including Number 16 Bus Shelter. I’m all for naming your child after their place of birth or conception if said place is Arizona, Savannah or Madison but I think I’d steer clear of such places as a bus stop or the back seat of a car. But, hey, that’s just me. Or is it? Many countries actually have rules in place governing the naming of children. In Germany, for instance, the sex of a child must be apparent by the name (eliminating such nomenclatures as Jordan, Peyton and Taylor), names cannot be that of objects (sorry, Apple) and names must come from a government-approved list. France, Denmark, Hungary, Spain and Argentina also have lists of approved names. So the next time you welcome a life into the world ask yourself: “Is Twilight Moonbeam really the best choice for a name?”. You might just be surprised to find the answer is: “probably not”.

Photo credit © Emin Ozkan | Dreamstime.com

Facebook: The (anti) Social Network

Kristel Gillies — Thu, 16 Sep 2010 07:56:16 +0000

Two years ago I went on the trip of a lifetime. It was a trip of many firsts: my first trip across the sea; my first trip to a different continent (two, in fact);and my first trip taken alone. It was also the first trip I took after the advent of Facebook so, upon my return, I did what everyone else seemed to be doing: I posted my photos.

I must admit, I see the allure. When a person posts something online they are given immediate satisfaction. With the internet people are able to comment and ‘like’ things right away. Gone are the days of slide shows in living rooms or waiting for the 24 hour photo lab. You don’t have to wait until the next time you see someone to show and tell them what you’ve been up to. You don’t have to force your photo album on to their laps. And people a person may not even speak to outside of the world wide web acknowledge images and moments that would otherwise never be shared between those same two people. It’s a world that is meant to bring us closer together.

Why, then, does it feel so lonely?

Out of the 1001 photos (yes, I counted them) taken on my trip I have only printed off eight. Eight. It also took me two years to print off those eight photos. Two years. Why? Because there was never any reason to. My trip was old news before I even had a chance to talk about it. There was never a need for the physical mementos and many of the stories they belong to never got told and are, sadly, long forgotten.

Is it possible that the very tools that are meant to bring us together could actually be causing us to drift apart? Are we becoming more personable or less personal? With the advent of social media I find ‘real’ life is anything but social and far less real. My online life is ten times more exciting then the one I have offline and by the time I see people in person anything I might have had to say has usually already been said. It begs the question… when your life is an open book on the internet what’s left of the story when the browser’s been closed?

I find myself coveting things. Stories, photos, general updates. I tend to save all the ‘good stuff’ for coffee dates and card nights because, quite frankly, I would otherwise run out of things to talk about. And when I do share something online there’s always that brief lapse of recognition when someone brings it up and I have to remind myself that this one-sided conversation is my own doing and I’m not being stalked and people aren’t talking about me behind my back but, rather, I’ve exposed myself, yet again, to a world far greater than my own. After all, the last time I checked the world wide web was an awfully big place. Too big, perhaps.

It’s a fine line. Between the joy of checking one’s blog, profile or website to find a comment, like or email and having that ‘old fashioned’ moment where photographs are spread across a dining room table and a gaggle of girls sit back in their chairs as they relish in the tales of one’s travels and admire the images of one’s adventures. Granted, the audience is a lot smaller and the impact not nearly as broad but the joy in being able to share an actual, physical moment and see the reaction to the sites and stories you share is often more rewarding than a witty remark from a person you haven’t seen in 17 years.

I recently went on another trip of a lifetime. And the number of photos I posted on Facebook? Not a one. I might, someday. Once the stories have been shared and the photos have been shown to the people who are nearest and dearest to me. When I’m looking for some attention from near-strangers and feel the need to increase my digital footprint on the world. But for now I’m quite content to hold on to the glossy photographs that would, otherwise, be nothing more than a cache file on the hard drive in a home I will never set foot in. After all, I’d hate to single-handedly put the printing and picture frame companies out of business. And what else would I use my fridge magnets for?

The Allure of Airports

Kristel Gillies — Thu, 05 Aug 2010 07:04:43 +0000

I love airports. Perhaps not my small-city airport where all the planes depart and arrive at the same time every morning and evening, making for baggage claim chaos and a customs line that’s long and winding, but I do love me some big city airports. They’re like a city within themselves. Nay, a world within themselves, with every country and culture represented. There are bookstores and coffee shops, fashion purses and duty-free stores. There are women with tears in their eyes saying goodbye to lovers and men holding flowers as they wait for the mother of their children to return home. There are grandparents with grandchildren and best friends reuniting with best friends. And there are people sleeping on benches, dreaming of the places they’ve been and destinations unseen. More people, and memories, pass through an airport in a single day than anywhere else. It is the one place almost everyone has been to, but to which no one ever stays. The moments are fleeting but the result of those moments are always memorable and often monumental. It’s such a simple thing that is taken for granted and so often complained about but each and every visit results in a change. A change in venue. A change in perspective.

It’s the intrigue of airports that thrills me. An avid people watcher, I love to watch the comings and goings, imagining the story behind every greeting and every tale belonging to each goodbye. And I wonder if someone else is doing the same. Do I catch their eye? To them I could be anyone- a business exec heading up the London office; a famous writer heading to the next stop on her book tour; or a stranger in a new land, starting life anew. In an airport anyone can be going anywhere or no where at all and there is no real way to tell the difference. Everyone is of equal importance, everyone’s story could be equally interesting and in the blink of an eye, barring any delays, every last one of them could be gone from that spot forever.

There’s that moment, as you walk down the corridor, when the world passes before your eyes. Paris, Sydney, Kuala Lumpur. Every exit is a gateway to a far off land. Behind each ticket lies the unknown. Foreign lands, exotic places, tantalizing food and culture. I often wonder which gate I would choose if a person could go anywhere at will, if every destination on the ticker board were a menu item and the deal of the day was Lima Peru or the Vatican City. In an airport the possibilities are endless. It is the one place in all the world that leads to every other place. It’s magical. It’s mystical. And one of the best parts of every journey I’ve ever been on has taken place before I even set foot on a plane.