When my sister visited earlier this month, we had a wonderful time shopping through Toronto, drinking wine and watching a lot of "What Not to Wear" on TLC. Ah, sister bonding -- good times.

Recently I've decided I need to put a muzzle on my own inner Stacey and Clinton. Stacey and Clinton, for those of you who are not as intimately acquainted with the genre of daytime makeover television as I am, are the stylists of "What Not to Wear." They secretly film people who dress like crap, and then they surprise them and tell them they dress like crap and throw out all their clothes and make fun of them. The people don't punch S & C in their noses, though, because they get $5,000 to spend on a new wardrobe, and that tends to ease the sting of being told you dress like a colorblind Olsen twin.

It's an entertaining and addictive little concept, and after watching a few episodes you can't help wondering what Stacey and Clinton would say about your wardrobe ... or that woman down the street who wears ill-advised fuschia hot pants. I realized that I'd internalized Stacey and Clinton perhaps a bit too much while I was sitting at a writer's group meeting this week. It was my first meeting, and as these people generously welcomed me into their circle I was silently but viciously Stacey-and-Clintoning their personal style. "Do you wear that faded, bulky cable knit sweater to accentuate your bad posture? ... And the sci-fi writer with the thinning ponytail, hello, cliche! That's gotta go..."

Then I realized my bitchy inner monologue was not doing me any favors. For whatever crimes against fashion these people had committed, they had done something I hadn't: they had sold poems and short stories, written novels, pitched themselves to agents and publishers. They weren't churning out best-sellers by any means, but they lived honestly as fiction writers, and whatever I thought of their ensembles I had to respect that. From my spotty blog postings recently, you can probably guess that the muse of motivation hasn't been singing in my ear. So I climbed down off my high horse and tried, for a change, not keeping myself at an ironic, watchful distance. I think it worked. I left inspired to spend less time with Stacey and Clinton and a little more time trying to makeover my writing.

Check it out, I'm an international theater critic! ('They're bored of the Rings.') Bring on the champagne and shrimp cocktail...

All spectacle and no heart -- that's my review of the new Lord of the Rings musical, which had its world premiere in Toronto last night. I lucked out and got a free ticket to the $27 million production, but found it visually lush and emotionally barren.

(Can you tell I'm trying out my reviewer style? As I was sipping free champagne and scarfing down cocktail shrimp at the after-party, I decided the life of a reviewer is for me.)

I had high hopes for the musical -- and so does Toronto, where the theater district is still struggling to recover from the post-SARS slump in tourism. Unfortunately I don't think this will be the show that saves them.

The set and visual effects are amazing. A fairy forest of twisted branches stretches out from the stage into the box seats. The stage not only revolves, sections of it fall and rise to mimic mountains and cliffs. But it's telling that one of the biggest rounds of applause during the three-and-a-half hour show came when a giant spider walked on stage.

There were no emotional connections. None of the characters has an arc. The hobbits start out as innocent children, and they end up the same way. They're all played as comic figures -- Merry and Pippin especially end up coming off as an obnoxious Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee. The actor playing Aragorn shouted/growled all his lines from start to finish -- there was no transformation from Ranger to King. The love story between him and Arwen never had any spark.

And the musical numbers were totally unmemorable. There were a lot of battle scenes, which all ended up looking alike. It's tough to make dance-fighting work, outside of West Side Story or Michael Jackson's "Bad" video, and the Enya-on-steroids music of the score wasn't doing this production any favors. There wasn't a single tune I could hum.

My favorite scene was a number with Sam and Frodo, singing about how their journey might be remembered in stories and songs "now and for always." It's simple and quiet and moving, and only served to highlight the emotional connection lacking in the rest of the show.

In case you think I'm just being cranky, even the local media panned it. Everyone loves the sets, but the hometown Toronto Star declared it "Bored of the Rings." The Globe and Mail snarks, "All it needs is an engaging storytelling approach, an emotional arc, credible performances and a more coherent musical score." Sooooo ... yeah, it kinda sucked.

It reminds me of that horrible Star Wars: Episode I movie, when George Lucas became so enamored with his special effects that he completely forgot about generating any real emotion with the human actors. This musical is the theatrical equivalent of The Phantom Menace, whereas Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings movie trilogy managed to frame the epic with human emotion.

On stage as in the movie, Gollum stole the show. The actor playing him was terrific, and compelling to watch every time he appeared. Plus he remindsed us how much we likeses talking in the first person plurals. We likeses it! No, we hates it!! No, really, we likeses it.

At the after-party I talked to Rachel Tolkien, J.R.R.'s granddaughter. The army of PR flaks had been promising her appearance, then they lost track of her for about an hour -- personally I think they had her in a back room, plying her with champagne and cocktail shrimp until she agreed to say something nice about the musical. She was kind of bland -- said the musical was "very beautiful." Well, so was my dress, but I wouldn't have paid $27 million for it.

Today at the nursing home, the Wonder Dog and I were walking down the hall when a cross-looking elderly lady held out her hand.

"Come here. Come here," she urged. In her past life she must have been a drill sergeant or a mother of 12, because her tone made it quite clear that this was an order. "This whole place is wired," she whispered as I came closer. "I've seen it. This is the headquarters. For spies."

I tried to interest her in the Wonder Dog. "This is my dog, would you like to visit with her today? She's a beagle, she's nine years old."

She looked impassively at the dog, then back up to me, her eyes filled with a perfect combination of despair at her predicament and disgust at my willful stupidity. "You're not listening to me," she said.

She must have noticed some softening in me, because she grabbed my hand. "You have ... a problem in your life," she said, doing her best Miss Cleo impression. "You are troubled by a problem in your life!"

I wasn't sure what she expected. Maybe something like, "Yes, yes I do! And you've seen right through me! You must be right about the wires too. I'm bustin' you out of this spy headquarters, right now!"

Instead, I just said, "I guess we all have problems in our lives -- we just have to muddle through the best we can."

She let go of my hand, still frustrated. I hope I see her again next week.

Ever since I entered college, I've had a badge that told me who I was. At college, the badge opened electronic doors and got me into cool libraries and assured me that, despite my occasional failings, I had gotten into and managed to remain enrolled at Yale. I was a Yalie, and that was pretty cool.

Then I got a Charlotte Observer badge, and later I got one from The Associated Press. It always amazed me how those press passes opened doors, even though any semi-computer-literate person could have whipped one up in about 10 minutes. "You're here to see the president? Where's your press pass? Oooh, it's laminated! Well, come right in!" Never underestimate the power of lamination.

But those press passes didn't just work on flaks and door goons. They worked on me, too. If anyone asked who I was -- if I wondered who I was -- the answer was easy: I'm a reporter. If you don't believe me, here's my badge. The pictures usually accented my shiny forehead or flyaway hair and made me cringe, but I clung to the badges nevertheless.

Now I find myself badgeless. (Insert "We don't need no steenkin' badges" joke here.) I am not what I do anymore. "Freelance writer" comes in handy for answering small talk questions, but it's not quite sturdy enough to hang an identity on. Some days I embrace this as a marvelous freedom, an opportunity to reinvent myself and discover the Real Me. Other days, I despair. Much of what I've discovered about the Real Me sounds like I'm a Playboy Playmate -- no, I don't have silicon-enhanced breasts, but I like long walks on the beach, puppies, sunsets, cooking and reading. OK, maybe the last two aren't playmate-ish, but I'm not sure these discoveries are the stuff of a life-changing enlightenment.

Does what we do define who we are? Obviously not, because my current lack of full-time vocation hasn't caused me to disappear in a puff of smoke. I just feel like I'm climbing, trying to get a fingerhold or toehold in whatever tiny ledges of identity I can find, and wondering what I'll see at the top. It's a novel idea, and one I'm still getting used to -- life, unlaminated.

Reason #193 why the Toronto Sun is one of my favorite guilty pleasures: Today's cover story on what the Sex Professionals of Canada (that would be the whooooooores) imagine different political figures would be like in the sack, based on their professional experience of judging the sexual prowess of total strangers.

The story is based on a poorly spelled chart posted anonymously several months ago on the SPAC's web site. But really, it's not like any real news goes into the Monday newspaper, so why not?

What do the other newspapers have? The Globe and Mail, Canada's own Grey Lady, has a banner headline declaring "UBC score academic coup by luring Nobel Physicist" jkgdsal;dskjkldk;ladslk;9uwqpoie;fhdsljkb9999999999999999999999

Sorry! Fell asleep there and my head hit the keyboard, thanks to the amazingly boring content of that headline!!! Do you think the Globe and Mail copy editors have some sort of sick competition to see who can write the boringest headline? If so, bravo to the author of that gem. I'm not even going to try to read the story, I'm pretty sure it's a leading cause of comas. Do not read that headline while operating heavy machinery, I'm warning you.

Apparently, the working girls say our new Prime Minister may be a conservative when it comes to fiscal policy, but in bed they think he is a "dirty boy."And the Sun editors in their wisdom recognized it as a chance to rerun the photo of Stephen Harper dressed as a gay cowboy; I just can't get enough of that. And they got 500 words out of it. I have got to get a job there.

Some songs on the radio today got me thinking about guilty pleasures. Things I know I shouldn't like, but I just can't help myself. Here is a partial list:

1. The Dove "Real Beauty" commercials. I keep telling myself they're just trying to sell more soap, they don't really care about improving women's self-esteem, but darnit if that ad about the little girls who think they're ugly with "True Colors" playing in the background didn't make me tear up just a tiny bit. I also like the one where the woman shakes her "Buddha belly." Damn you, Dove marketers! You have me quoting ads now. You are far too clever for me with your self-esteem reverse psychology. I submit. I will buy your soap.

2. "Jack" FM, the dj-less radio station. They had it in Seattle and we have it here in Toronto, so it much be a North America-wide thing. In theory I hate the idea of souless, computerized corporate radio taking over the air waves. But in practice? Today while I was listening they played the following songs, in order: "Friday I'm in Love" by the Cure, "Keep On Rockin' in the Free World" by Neil Young, "Lucky Star" by Madonna, and "Gonna Make You Sweat (Everybody Dance Now)" by C+C Music Factory. It was AWESOME! How can I not love that? There is no way not to love a song set like that, is the answer.

3. Cadbury Creme Eggs. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Chocolate shell filled with pure yolky sugary goodness. And after Easter, they're gone! Must eat as many as I can now, now now!! Hoarding instinct kicks in! Once again, well played, marketing executives. Well played.

4. Ryan Seacrest. I should hate his shiny plastic patina and his blonde highlights and the way he pretends to care about American Idol contestants rather than seeing them as paycheck meat, but I can't help admiring his naked desire to be loved by all America (and parts of Canada). He seems to be there every time I turn on my TV (on the TV, not in my living room. That would be weird). I admire that kind of work ethic. So Ryan Seacrest, against my better judgment, I salute you.

I must admit, part of me was looking forward to watching the U.S. baseball team get their highly paid asses kicked by the Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico and others in the "World Baseball Classic" (I guess "world series" was already taken).

This would be the same part of me that delights in watching skateboarding punks who think they're so cool try some fancy trick on the sidewalk and fall. Sometimes it's all I can do to keep from laughing out loud. On the one hand, that's sort of an evil reaction, but I prefer to see it as my ability to take joy from the small things in life.

Anyhoo, I never thought Americans would get beat by Canada at their own game! Whose national pastime is it, again? How embarrassing for the U.S. The sports commentators here can barely conceal their glee. Of course, if Canada's so good at baseball, how come the Toronto Blue Jays suck so much?

Another reason to be glad I'm out of the U.S., and sad and scared for what is happening back home.

Honestly, this story makes me so sad. Not just for women in South Dakota, and not just because abortion could eventually be banned in some states, basically making safe abortions available only to those wealthy enough to travel and/or get around the rules.

What's really depressing is the thought of all the passion and effort and money -- my lord, the millions and millions of dollars in lobbying fees and ads and rallies and litigation -- that will be spent on this issue over the next few years. And meanwhile, actual already-born children will continue to suffer in poverty, die of abuse, get shoved into sucky foster care homes, go to underfunded schools. And some of them will grow up to be teenagers who get pregnant because they're totally ignorant about birth control and/or so desperate for love that having a baby at age 15 sounds like a swell idea. I wish all the people who are so damn concerned about fetuses -- on both sides -- cared half as much about what happens after the babies are born.

I remember a few years ago I covered an anti-abortion rally in Olympia. The woman who organized the rally was your pretty standard abortion foe -- talked a lot about Jesus, waved gruesome pictures, ended most sentences by screaming "THEY'RE KILLING LITTLE BABIES!!!" But her daughter was a little more interesting -- about 20 years old, kind of a hipster, quiet though just as passionate about stopping abortion as her mom. A small group of pro-choice people turned out for a counter-demonstration, and there was a lot of yelling back and forth between the two groups. (And then Mom the Organizer yelled at the news photographers taking pictures of the yelling, "STOP PAYING ATTENTION TO THEM! PAY ATTENTION TO US!!")

But in the middle of all this, Daughter of the Organizer actually managed to have a thoughtful, civil, non-shouty conversation with one of the counter-protesters about abortion -- about how it's never a really great choice, how kids need to be educated about contraception and teenage girls need to be empowered and society as a whole needs to step up and support women and children so that fewer abortions will be necessary. It was a great conversation. It was the type of conversation we need to have. But it always gets drowned out by the shouting.

Go Canada! I watched the Oscars last night, even though I hadn't seen any of the movies. (That's what DVDs are for -- sorry, the Academy, I just don't buy your hysterical rantings about how movies are an art form that can only be appreciated on a big screen, sharing the experience with strangers who were clearly raised by rabid wolves who told them never to stop talking, ever, ever.)

"Crash," of course, was directed by a Canadian. Although "Brokeback Mountain" was actually filmed in Alberta, so I guess Canada's a winner either way. And, uh, I think the sound guy on Capote might be from Montreal.

Living in Canada is sort of like living in a small town in that way -- something big happens and you instantly find the Canadian connection. As soon as I moved here, I developed this reflex of blurting out "He/She's Canadian, you know" whenever anyone mentions anything remotely connected. Rachel McAdams? Canadian! Neil Young? Canadian! Sandra Oh? Canadian! I could go all day, and I'm hardly even trying.

Unfortunately the Best Picture announcement must have come after newspaper deadlines here. Or they just decided that a Reese Witherspoon photo would sell more papers than Paul Haggis, which is probably true. I really like her, pointy chin and all.

In a bad bit of Oscar juxtaposition, the banner headline on today's National Post, atop a standalone George Clooney Oscar photo, declares, "Crash claims second soldier." I know some people really wanted Brokeback Mountain to win, but blaming Crash for military deaths seems a bit extreme.

Some people are dog people, and some are cat people. And that doesn't just depend on what sort of pet you prefer.

Cat people always land on all fours. In any room, after any number of drinks, they know where their best angles are. All those starlets you see in the magazines, posing with their toes turned in to achieve that artful oh-am-I-having-my-picture-taken-I'm-so-authentic-and-cool-I-didn't-even-notice effect? Cat people. Kate Moss, even at her most coked up, probably knows how to drape her dessicated limbs just so to achieve maximum hottness.

The situation of dog people, on the other hand, can best be expressed by a fierce-looking Doberman Pinscher I used to babysit for. Actually, there were children involved too, but whatever. After the kids went to bed I would couch-sit and watch TV, and the Doberman would try to sit on my lap. He'd never just jump up there -- no, too clever for that. First he'd lay his muzzle on my knee, and then he would ever-so-slowly start limboing his shoulders and torso onto my legs, as if he was hoping that I'd never notice an animal that outweighed me slowly sprawling over my lap. And if I called him on it, he'd just look at me innocently and wag that abbreviated tail. "Who, me? Crushing your legs? I'm just a wee puppy! Love me!"

Of course, this is why I do love dogs. They have no idea what size they are. You see Chihuahuas barking ferociously at cowering Great Danes. They also have no idea of where their body begins and ends -- my poor Wonder Dog seems to learn anew, every night, that there are two sliding glass doors between her and the backyard. Every night -- wag wag wag THUMP! wag wag wag. I should buy her a helmet.

Yup, I'm a dog person through and through. Or to put it another way: I have a softball-sized bruise on my knee from banging it against the tub -- which is the same height it has always been, despite my accusations -- and I accidentally grated my left hand along with the cheese for tonight's dinner. Twice.

Ruff.

For a much more lyrical and insightful take on foreign groceries, check out Karma Canyon for thoughts on Whole Foods, surly Greek cashiers, and the search for identity. It's honest and great and brilliant. Joanna -- am I blog-stalking you now? I apologize -- I so don't know the etiquette on these things.

I have been meaning to write about the differences in Canadian food versus food in the good ole US of A for a while, but my plans have been overtaken by urgent breaking news:

I have discovered generic Samoas here!

Yes, delicious round coconut cookies topped with caramel and chocolate, available year-round in the grocery store. Take that, monopolistic Girl Scouts! No longer am I captive to the whims of your seasonal marketing campaigns and the school-age daughters of my coworkers!

I'm soooo excited. (Although that might be all the sugar.) I don't think the people who discovered the actual island of Samoa were probably as exicted as I am about these cookies.

They're sold here under the "No Name" brand, which I initially thought was just a cheapie generic thing but now I think maybe they're trying to hide from the Girl Scout mafia. I'd offer to smuggle in boxes to the USA, but I'm afraid the Brownies would kneecap me.

Of course, now that I have discovered The Source, probably the next you'll hear from me is when they have to get the crane to lift me out of my house because I weigh 600 pounds. But it'll be worth it.

Another Canadian food discovery is that Canada may be the only country in the world that actually likes things sweeter than Americas. I learned this from a friend who works in the communications department for a pie-making company. (All together now: Mmmmm, pie.) Canadians like things so sweet that they actually have to tone down the sugar in the products they sell in the U.S. I think they feed the babies here straight maple syrup or something. And that may sound like an easy maple syrup joke, but I am serious, they put maple syrup in everything here.

One mystery I have not solved: at the end of Oreos commercials here, they always say, "You make a good cookie, Mr. Christie!" Who the hell is Mr. Christie and what is he doing to Canadian Oreos? It's all very mysterious and I must investigate further. Actually, I just realized that my friend who works in the pie factory is named Christie! Oh my god, this is like the Da Vinci code of the dessert industry.