Monday, November 28, 2005


“So let’s re-cap. Crappy presentation, working late, no apology.” God, could the writing get any better?

Forget Oprah and her book club, join a Desperate Housewives club. Last night we were eight. Seven regulars plus ‘Helen’ – my friend Andrea’s mother. She should get a job writing for the show. We gasped and giggled at her comments as much as at the show. She said I needed to learn how to be a better receiver. Hee hee, she has NO idea. We were talking about graciously accepting a gift – hee hee again - (seeing how the Christmas season is upon us) but all our minds ran straight for the gutter. She also told us in no uncertain terms that her sister is a bitch. Sounds like a match for our Gabrielle! Speaking of which back to the show re-cap:

Poor Susan, she might as well move from Wisteria Lane to Crappy Storyline Street and change her phone # to 1-800- no-one-cares. Cute yes, but nothing compared to the roller coaster ride that poor Bree went on last night. Could they have picked a better actress? I personally think that every karaoke machine needs to meet her shotgun – what a scene! And excuse me, but did y’all not think Dr. Goldfine was dead? Piece du resistance - when Bree found out George had killed Rex – we were breathless. I thought for sure she was going to have a gun in her purse, but the way it was done – brilliant. “I called them while you were asleep.” Bye-bye Georgey Boy!

Lynette. Where to start? Just because Nina is fired though, I hope we have not seen the last of her. I think they should make her go after Tom as payback. I have to admit that Lynette was not my favourite character at the start of the show but I have grown to love her. I still want to know what it is that Tom confessed to his father – Lynette is going to be mad!

And what nun says “I’m from the south side of Chicago, bring it on.” Can someone say Kirsten Dunst as a cheerleader? Still, a great Gabrielle scene. And the looks of disdain she shoots Carlos as he prays and confers with God are priceless. I think the nun is some sort of agent planted to get more dirt on Carlos. Mark my words, it is going to get ugly. I continue to draw my Gabrielle-Scarlett connection. Scarlett didn’t let the mealy mouthed Melanie get in her way, and Gabrielle won’t let a nun get in hers.

Next week? Very glad to see Andrew is back - in bed with the gardener! He’s a little you-know-what disturber, but makes the show fun. We also need more Edie! At least she had one good zinger last night telling Susan her that her personality “is an acquired taste.”

Oh right, Susan re-cap, like I said – who cares?

Saturday, November 26, 2005

Keep your lovely lady lumps to yourself.

My good friend Terry had his last day at work yesterday. To celebrate his moving on “to bigger and better things” he wanted to go out with some of the boys from work. Fair enough, dealer’s choice as they say. He decided he wanted to go to one of the city’s more infamous entertainment venues – The Landing Strip.

Never having been to a female strip club before I was intrigued indeed. The first thing I noticed was the difference between a female strip joint and a male one. The men were all sitting around chatting, pouring beer down their gullet, stuffing their faces with chicken wings (that is not what I pictured when guys said they got ‘sticky fingers’ at a strip bar, but glad that is what it turned out to be – yuck) and occasionally looking at the stage show. The polar opposite of that is a visit to Chippendales where the female audience goes ape when the strippers hit the stage. And when the tea bagging begins you better be packing earplugs.

I didn’t plan on staying long. Honest. But did you know they have giveaways in those places? And I don’t mean a bottle of “Genital Herpes” au du parfum either – I hate that commercial. I’m sure if you wanted that, they could accommodate, but that’s not what I meant.

Try as I might I could not whip the audience into a frenzy for the pole dancers. Our group of 11 got somewhat rowdy with each pitcher of beer but I was the only one to lose my voice. I hate it when a good performance goes unrewarded.

The only thing that raised interest that evening (that I saw anyway, who knows what was being raised in the private booths) was when ‘Miranda’ walked on stage in a Labatt’s Blue T-shirt. ‘Dave’ the announcer said that whoever gave Miranda their underwear first got the t-shirt. Well a boy can’t have too many beer shirts can he? Then again, maybe he can. In fact, I think there should be a limit of say, one per person. Per lifetime. Anyway, t-shirt or not, I love a challenge and a chance to be an exhibitionist. So does my co-worker Dan. By the time I had one cowboy boot off he was naked from the waist down. (P.S., congratulations to Dan’s wife!). Not a quitter am I, so I finished and tossed my jockeys (the brand, not the cut) on stage. Exhilaration soon turned to horror when I found out that second prize was a lap dance! How about a turn on the brass pole instead?

Before I knew what was happening I had a woman (we did not exchange names) standing in front of me with a large bouncer next to her. I politely asked if she would dance for Terry as he would get more enjoyment out of it. Apparently, lap dances are like airline tickets - neither refundable nor transferable.

“No touching”she said coyly. “Ditto” I replied. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of that and proceeded to ‘entertain’ me. No offence dear, if you by some chance read this (six degrees of separation and all that), I would have had more pleasure from a rousing version of “let me entertain you” sung by Liza (with a ‘Z’, not Lisa with an ‘S’). Nice effort though. Great thighs.

My biggest concern as she did her bump and grind was that she was going to leave a stain or skid mark on my pants. I was glad when it was over and that my suede pants were left unharmed. All in all a harmless experience and a good lesson learned – don’t give your undergarments to strangers.

Friday, November 25, 2005

If you are going through hell, keep going!

OK. I admit it. I am a bad blogger. I have tried and tried to write something this week. My Thai tips, theory on male PMS and the story of the cursed rosary all sounded great in my mind (as do so many things – who knew hamsters really didn’t like boats and were bad swimmers – damn you Hammy Hamster, damn you to hell!) but fell flat when I started putting pen to paper. Or fingers to computer keys as the case may be. I have bloggers-block. The above are blog worthy suggestions and will make there way here eventually, but not this week.

Stumped as I was, I turned to KitKat for help. Being the computer savvy girl that she is, I mean she can find ANYTHING on the net, she sent me a link for “” – who the hell knew? I was inspired by several suggestions, namely “who would you like to be tied to for 24 hrs?” But here I was stumped – I mean being the Desperate Housewives fan that I am I wouldn’t mind being tied to Bree for a day to keep her safe from that freak George. But then I thought, too corny, needs to be more meaningful. Would have loved to been tied to Winston Churchill at the dinner with Lady Astor where she said “Sir, If you were my husband, I would give you poison.” And he quipped “If I were your husband I would take it.” Ha ha. Love it. But being tied to a corpse for and entire day (half a day fine) not-so-much. Halloween is over after all. Then there is the whole kinky angle but my mother reads this, so I think not.

I also liked “With your license to kill, who would be first?” But I don’t hate anyone (life is to short to hold a long grudge. I can get mad, but never for very long) so that died on the vine.

Next was “How long do you think you will live?” 75. That will be more than sufficient. That is my timeline. I plan on running out of money on my 75th birthday so I am really counting on this one. Wish me luck!

“How do you feel about being naked?” Let’s see, I get home from work and can’t wait to get out of my monkey suit and walk around in my underwear. That’s not exactly naked, but I have more respect for my furniture than that. Especially the fabulous chairs I inherited from my grandmother. Sitting in those with a bare bottom would be wrong. So checkmark for naked.

“Why do dogs smell each others ass?” I think the real question here, is why DON’T we?

“What should we do with stupid people?” Ummmm, can I get my license to kill back?

Ahhhhhhhhhh, I feel alive again. I now have a list of things to write about and actually feel good about this entry! I will keep “” for future reference and give KitKat a big hug for helping me out. I think the block has been removed! Several fond memories have now resurfaced and shall soon grace the pages of my blog.

Saturday, November 19, 2005

Furget it!

Last weekend was the latest instalment on my journey to becoming a yogi. Thankfully it felt a lot less like boot camp and more like, dare I say it, fun camp.

I came away more convinced than ever that not only are the instructors testing our knowledge of philosophy and our ability to get ourselves and others into various asanas, but also our resolve not to fart in front of the class. Last month it was chilli, this month it was coleslaw. Yummy coleslaw. And I am sorry, but if you expect me to bring my knees to my ears with my shins on the floor next to my head all the while resting on my shoulders, I am going to commit a fart faux pas. Wait. Is there such a thing? Or is the act of farting itself a faux pas? Something to think about.

One faux pas I should have anticipate and avoided was the wearing of a lambskin coat, fur hat (I know, men in fur look ridiculous, but my fox fur hat is CUTE) and leather boots to a ‘community’ (not my word and I had an aversion to Kool-Aid again) whose population is about 80% vegetarian. At the risk of offending, I am going to say this – if the Dali Lama can eat meat, I can wear fur. And leather. And and and…..I eat beef, lamb, goose, duck, chicken etc so at least I don’t let anything go to waste. Even my pillows are feather so the birds are all used too.

Unlike Bob Barker and his plastic shoes, I am not trying to convert anyone here. Although I am sure that if we could communicate with animals we would find some that would choose to be eaten or fashionably worn as opposed to having their bits chopped off. Do you know how they castrate a bull? Or make a eunuch? No thank you. Stick a meat thermometer in me and call me dinner.

Anyway, after loading up on coleslaw and stir-fry, we headed out for our nightly walking meditation. As everyone put on their Mountain Equipment Co-op jackets and fleece gloves, I slipped into my lambskin coat, fur hat and leather boots and gloves. No one said anything but the looks sure did. And if a may paraphrase Rhett Butler, “frankly, I don’t give a damn.” I like wearing leather and fur – it was designed to keep the cold out and warmth in. And in my opinion nothing else comes close. I am not saying that extremes don’t exist. For example, my grandmother grew up with a girl who was so fond of her dog that when it passed away, she had it made into a stole. Crazy? Eccentric? Who am I to judge? Next month though, I think I will wear my mink yoga shorts and take my suede yoga mat.

Monday, November 14, 2005

Gabrielle is good, but she is no Scarlett.

As you can guess from earlier blog entries, I am a fan of Desperate Housewives. A few episodes this season have been a bit lacklustre to say the least but last night erased any shortcomings of the season! Bree’s story continues to keep me on the edge of my seat with excitement while rolling on the floor with laughter. And if a man like that came in my backyard, well……..

While I have to commend the writers for their original plots with regards to Lynette, Bree and to some extent Susan, I have yell “plagiarism” at Gabrielle’s fate. Did you notice when Gabrielle was being sewn into her dress, all the while grasping the bedpost, she bitched about the size of her waist? Can anyone say Mamie lacing Scarlett? And how did Ms. O’Hara lose her baby? She fell down the stairs. And how did Ms. Solis miscarry last night? That’s right, a tumble down the stairs. And when Scarlett tells Rhett there will be no more bedroom shenanigans and he throws a drink against her portrait, ever notice the colour of the dress? That’s right, the same satin blue Little Ms. Yoga on Wisteria Lane was wearing last night. Hmmm.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Gone With the Wind and don’t mind seeing it be recycled on such a good show. But honestly, if the network is willing to pay for such things, give me a job. I’ll have Susan with Zach’s dead body in a pool telling a television news crew “she is ready for her close-up”, Lynette floating on a door in the middle of the North Atlantic while Tom tells her “she must go on” and Bree getting stabbed in the shower with George dressed as his mother. I mean, “we all go a little crazy” now and then right?

As they say in Hollywood, my message to the producers is, have your people call my people and we’ll talk.

Friday, November 11, 2005

Father Knows Best

I am always thrilled to tell people about my childhood. Not knowing any better, I lived my life much like the characters on Leave It To Beaver. It was not until Junior High that I discovered that not all mothers stayed at home while father went to work, that couples actually argued and fought and that not each street had a newspaper published by the neighbourhood kids. Shadylawn Court was the name of my street. It was just off Suburban Drive. I now realize it was one of the last bastions of suburbia. I no longer have the desire to live in suburbia, but it had its charms growing up.

People often disbelieve my tales of an idyllic childhood that included nightly games of hide and seek with groups of 20 or more kids (all within about 5 years of age) and a street where kids were welcome to come and go in the homes of their friends as if they were there own. Even more disbelieving for many is the fact that I was never subject to corporal punishment. My dad would occasionally grab for his belt or we may not get dessert, but that was about it. There was the occasional grounding as well, but that rarely stuck.

My dad was much more of a “mess with your head” type of guy. My siblings and I have all turned out to be upstanding members of society – one of us is even a policeman – but I was not without my challenges growing up. I would set my sister up to get blamed for things I did (who can forget Hair Gel gate) and just pester my brother for no good reason. If the tables were turned however, you better watch out, as I kid I did not believe in “you better be able to take what you dish out.” I could cross “the backseat line” and invade the space of my siblings, but I would scream blue murder if they did it back.

One evening on the way home from the grandparents, I was in fine provoking form. Having poked, prodded and pissed off my brother and sister I sat back to squeal as they retaliiated. My father calmly pulled over to the side of the Burlington Skyway, hauled me and Winnie the Pooh out of the backseat and asked if I would like to either walk home or be left on the side of the road. The effect was instantaneous. The tears poured forth and I begged to be let back in the car. Promises of obedience flowed. Winnie fell to the ground. He was on his own. Get your own damn lawyer! I sat silent and still as a statue all the way home wishing I hadn’t abandoned Winnie. He was next to me in bed when I awoke the next morning. If I’d known the bear could walk home (my mom told me he showed up in the night with sore little paws) I would have been more defiant and walked home too.

Now, I was not alone in provoking my parents. Another trip found us coming home from visiting relatives late one night. Non-stop caterwauling came from all three of the Mitchell spawn. Again, calm as can be, my dad pulled over and ran into a cornfield. Not to be outdone, my mother turned to us and said “now you’ve done it, you made your father leave.” After a pause filled with nothing but deafly silence, tears rolled down our little cheeks (we liked to stir the pot, but we were still cute) and we asked our mother what it was we could do to make dad come back. In a few minutes, he returned to a car filled with silent children. Turns out, he had just stopped to pee and mother made the most of the situation. And we thought we were so smart.

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

The weather started getting rough, the tiny ship was tossed...

It was a gorgeous fall day, windy and crisp. I had been cooped up studying as the wind howled around the building. I could see the waves crashing out on the lake and decided it was time for a closer look and a break from the books. A toque on my head, mittens by mom on my hands and a pot of tea in my belly for warmth, I headed out. It was one of those bracing winds that every once in a while actually stopped me in my tracks. Fab! At one point a leaf smacked me in the forehead so hard it hurt! A squirrel probably threw it to exact revenge for Skippy’s treatment on Halloween.

Walking along the waters edge, I couldn’t help but notice hundreds of ducks and geese riding the waves as if it were part of their daily routine. I guess it is. It’s not like they have places to go and get warm. Well they do actually, it’s called an oven. Orange sauce anyone? Silly birds, I would have headed south long ago. I mean with a tail wind like that they could have been south of the Mason Dixon Line by dinner.

I digress. It was such a pleasant walk that I just kept on walking. When I reached the tip of this little peninsula, it occurred to me that drinking an entire pot of tea before a LONG excursion was probably not such a good idea. But as I was out in nature, I answered its call. A quick glance around told me I was alone so I found what shelter I could. Every once in a while we all need to be reminded of certain sage advice. I am going to share some with you now – don’t pee into the wind! And while I’m on the subject, don’t spit in it either. I was reminded that such practices, even when dictated by our natural instincts, are foolish. Ahhh, the folly of youth. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it!

Sunday, November 06, 2005

A pumpkin quandary.

With the passing of Halloween comes a dilemma – what to do with ones pumpkin? While many choose to compost (and good for you) I have an alternative in the form of a recipe. I am not saying eat the top that is blackened by the candle (a problem you won’t have if you use a light bulb like Martha says). But if you cut off the face part, you’ll still have half of your squash. This recipe calls for butternut squash, but any will do, and it is yum. Enjoy!

Save and toast the seeds for a garnish. (You can toast them along with the squash but don't let them burn)

Preheat your oven to 400F.
Place your squash, cut side down, on an oiled cookie sheet and bake until you can easily pierce it with a fork (approx 1hr). Cool, scoop out the guts (come on, it's close to Halloween still) and discard the skin.

In a soup pot melt 3 tbsp butter and add 2 large leeks (white part only, sliced) and 4 tsp fresh minced ginger. Cook for about 5 minutes or until leeks are soft.

Add your squash and 4 cups of chicken stock. (Can use vegetable stock if you prefer)

Simmer for about 20 minutes until squash is complete mush and then run through a blender or food processor until smooth. Return to pot and add 2 more cups of stock and 1.5 tsp of salt.

It is DELICIOUS at this point. But to make it a bit more substantial you can crumble some goats cheese on or a spoonful of plain yogurt. If not, garnish with the toasted seeds on dive in! Not literally of course as your pot is likely too small and the soup would be too hot.

Don't forget to warm your bowls first!

Friday, November 04, 2005

All Hallows Eve

Another Halloween has come and gone. Parading down Church Street this year we were dressed as a cocktail shaker and a martini, two Mormon missionaries, a sailor, Jack from A Nightmare Before Christmas, Willy Wonka and Veruca. My squirrel was a huge hit even though Jesus broke one of his claws when his robes got caught. Luckily the bone held and I managed to crazy glue little Skippy back together. A close call considering I plan on re-eBaying him. Cute yes, but $47 worth of cute? No. And the thought of dusting a dead rodent is too much even for me.

While I admit my squirrel expenditure was excessive, I hope to recoup some of that. KitKat however spent $42 on smarties to fill his Willy Wonka cane and has little chance at getting anything but cavities. I hope his SoniCare is charged. It was well worth it though. He was far and away the best Willy on the strip. And there were quite a few. While it did not garner an award this year (he was robbed I tell you!) he and Veruca found validation in the form of the Japanese paparazzi. As usual, the village was awash in people from the suburbs, those outside the community (which of course we welcome with open arms) and the evening news looking for the season’s best. Willy (KitKat) couldn’t walk 5 feet without having one of his brothers or sisters wanting to “capture him for posterity.”

By nights end I had flashbacks of an outing with my friend Paola. She had a beautiful fur coat and was out for a Saturday evening of excess. Suffice it to say that as her mother sat in church the next morning she thought the man next to her was in dire need of a shower. No matter how far down the pew she scooted, the smell followed. To put this as delicately as possible, let me just say the poor Paola had regurgitated her dinner on her coat the night before. She thought she had cleaned it in a snow bank (and who hasn’t been there?) but apparently not. Mind you, the smell was nothing compared to the shock of finding a little baggy of pot in the coat pocket as she fumbled for a tissue to mask the smell. Wacky tobaccy in church! Oh my.

Luckily my fur coat was neither beautiful nor worn anywhere the next day. It is cleaned, sans squirrel and in my tickle trunk. If only it was white I would contemplate Cruella Daville next year. Of course with a little bleach……..