light and flaky

For my birthday

2012-01-26T14:52:00.000-08:00

I am giving you all over 2 months to organize yourselves and take up a collection.

Green is one of my favourite colours and, luckily, emeralds are my second favourite gem. Next to diamonds naturally.

The world's largest emerald is going on sale in Kelowna, BC in the not too distant future and I think it would make a fetching tiara. Mind you, I am partial to hats and I wouldn't want to have to decide between a hat or a tiara.

Perhaps a pinky ring instead. In platinum of course. Thanks in advance.

Proud Sinner

2012-01-16T11:21:00.000-08:00

I know that Pride is one of the seven deadly sins but I can’t help myself. Not in this instance. On Friday, on schedule, I placed my whites in the washing machine. After I let it fill with water and the soap get all sudsy I noticed that, what I have since learned is called the agitator, was not agitating.

The bottom part was doing its back-and-forth thing but the tower portion stood motionless. After a press, a pull and a whack, I decided it was indeed broken. IronMan calls me his handyman but such machines fall outside my realm of expertise.

I feared an unplanned expense that would cut into my established wine budget for Italy this July. If that were curtailed I’m not sure it would be worth the trip. Mind you, it might not have hurt the captain of the Costa Concordia to have one less glass with dinner.

Memories of my dad’s ‘support local business’ stance and the repeated references from the Doll House girls motivated me to visit Faulkner Appliances. I found out that they sell units but don’t make repairs. They did however furnish me with the name and number of a serviceman they recommend.

Calling on Saturday, I didn’t expect, or indeed get, an answer or a response before Monday. The whites had been washed, if not properly agitated, but I still had towels to do! This wouldn’t stand.

Putting on my “now” generation hat, and mustering up my dad’s DIY attitude, I scratched my noodle and hit the internet. In less than 3 minutes I found a YouTube video explaining just my situation. In less than 10 minutes I had my agitator removed, disassembled and the worn out dogs removed.

Chronic impatience and frugality led to one slight misstep. Instead of ordering the part on-line, as explained in the video, I drove to Canadian Tire, Home Dept and Rona in search of it. Why wait AND pay for shipping I thought?

Soon enough, I found myself back in front of the computer ordering the piece on-line. $8.44 shipping for a $2.62 part – I was outraged! Pink Girl has since informed me of a plumbing supply store par excellence that I will keep in the old filofax for future reference.

I must concede that $8.44 for overnight shipping isn’t THAT bad when I consider the expense of a repairman. Mind you, depending on the hanyman…..

So here I sit, Chianti in hand (I need to start practicing now), prouder than I probably should be, listening to the gentle slosh slosh slosh of the WhirlPool SlimTwin that I fixed!

I take it back

2012-01-10T08:24:00.000-08:00

Let’s tally the score shall we – Mother Nature 1, Jack Front, in cahoots with aforementioned Mother, 1, Robert, 0.

It was not the 100 Years War, not even the 7 Year War. Rather, more like a 72 hour war and I concede defeat. The white flag is waving and once again nature has triumphed over man, at least this one.

‘Unseasonably warm’ is how this January has been described to date. No snow or ice on the path has indeed been a blessing as I cycle to work each morning. But mix together a light lake breeze, near freezing temperatures and thin bike tires and you have a recipe for Jack Frost to be mischievous.

As I rounded a corner this morning the back tire of my bicycle slipped out from under me. Quickly following was the front tire and the rest of Molly. Gravity then went to work on what Fauntleroy calls my ‘hefty’ hips as I smashed to the ground.

Based on the bruising, gash in my jacket sleeve and road rash, my left elbow appears to have made contact next. The last bit to fall victim was my ego. Quickly looking around for witnesses I jumped up, brushed myself off and tried to peddle away only to find my chain had also popped off.

Hobbling to the grass, a fellow cyclist that I had fortunately passed before turning the corner so he did not see the spill, stopped to query if everything was okay. “Chain just popped off” I murmured as I massaged my hip.

I took not sliding into a fence, tree or the lake as a sign Mother Nature wasn’t exerting her full wrath. Rather, she was giving me a chance to reflect on my “bring it on” attitude.

Well Mother, you win. I will heed this most fair warning and take the opportunity apologize for my action.

I hate to admit defeat so easily, but at my age, one needs to mind their hips as they tend to be prone to breaking.

Bring It Mother Nature!

2012-01-08T15:09:00.000-08:00

Apparently Mother Nature does not like being told to leave me with my youth. Nor does she like my being a party to taking four of her geese during our now annual Dave and George Mitchell memorial hunt. At least that is all I can assume.

She was so displeased that she deemed it necessary to sacrifice one of the many pawns on her chessboard of life. Said pawn took the shape of a jumbo sized racoon during a night drive heading out of Fergus.

Geese breast and legs in tow I headed home for a highly anticipated scrumptious meal. Not 10 minutes outside of Fergus I spotted, a little too late, a set of glowing yellow eyes. They darted across Liza's path and stopped on the centre line.

Much like the suicidal birds I occasionally run into, literally, the fool of a racoon decided it was a good idea to run back in front of me!

Needless to say, it did not end well for neither beast nor machine. About 1/3 of my bumper, apparently made out of plastic and held together with rubber bands, joined Ricky Racoon on the side of road. The protective rubber under-fender cover also went flying off into the dark.

Boo I say. Boo indeed. But I also say bring it Mother Nature. Bring it. I have snow tires and insurance. Bring it on!

Absolutely NOT Fabulous

2012-01-06T09:47:00.000-08:00

For our first Thursday in 2012, the boys and I tucked into a healthy meal (courtesy of Kitkat) and in addition to each others company, also enjoyed a couple of TV treats from across the pond.

First, was the Downton Abbey Christmas special and like the series, was lovingly better than expected. If you haven’t watched the seasons yet don’t jump to the special or it will ruin everything for you.

Second, and still hilarious, was an episode of the new Absolutely Fabulous. The writing was spot on and brill as usual but the actors are, ummmm, showing their mileage. June Whitfield (Edina’s mother) aside, the cast definitely looks 20 years older.

That’s right. Ab Fab started in 1992! 20 bloody buggery years ago darling. On Patsy, it only added to her over the top, ‘once was’ character and you could go with it. Edina’s work was evident but again, worked with the part.

Bubble however, is a completely different story. When Jane Horrock first appeared on screen I almost dropped my drink. I thought surely it was a dream sequence and they were trying to age her character. Sadly, this was not the case.

Fauntleroy, while equally shocked, burst our little “we look good for our age” bubble by stating that “we are that old you know” and that we were around when the show started. He also asked if we actually thought we looked like we did when we were 25.

To his first point, Bubble was born in 1964 (yes, I checked) so she has 5 years on us. And no, I don’t look like I did when I was 25, or 30 or 35 or anything in between. I still think it’s unfair, and I know, life isn’t…..., that we all get to experience youth and then ever so slowly have it taken away.

Kitkat tried to buoy our spirits by stating that “we all still have our hair” but who knows how long that is going to stick around before migrating down my back?

Acknowledging that the first blog post of the New Year should be positive and upbeat I have to admit this one is a stitch cynical. Cynicism, so eloquently put by Lillian Hellman, is an unpleasant way of stating the truth.

I am just going to say it – I hate getting old. I know hate is a strong word, but it’s not strong enough.

They say with age comes wisdom. I would rather be stupid and young with no lower back pain and good knees that I can still tuck behind my head. And PS, the latest study suggests our brains “start to lose it” at 45. Well now that’s just great…. 2 years after I get my wattle I get to go crazy.

They say with age comes stability and financial security for your ‘golden years’. I would rather be young and dumb enough not to know the difference between a ‘defined benefit’ and ‘defined contribution’ pension plan and have no concept of the consequences of living on credit.

They say with age comes “respect for your elders”. I am only 42 but go into any store, particularly painful in A&F (arguably I should not be shopping there) and every question, comment or conversation begins or ends with “sir.” Mind you, I hate it just as much when people presume it okay to call me “buddy”, “bud” or any other variation thereof. Perhaps I need to print a t-shirt that says “please call me Robert.”

Father Time, I beg of you, keep your Zoomer magazines, your senior discounts and designated seating. Stop telling me, and trying to convince yourself that “40 is the new 30” or “70 is the new 60”. They are not. At 40, you’re 40. You do NOT feel the same as you did at 30 or 25 or any other age. I’ll give you 39 if you just turned.

And Mother Nature, stop giving me lines, sags and spots in places where I Clinique 3 Step. And that is EVERYWHERE. I'm doing my part here, little help?

Outrage!

2011-12-19T08:54:00.001-08:00

Devastated, depressed and depredated are just a few descriptors of how I feel right now. My emotional well being is in the hands of two wicked cynics bent on ruining this most festive time of year. Mind you, they are nothing compared to their puppet masters, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.

I promised not mention “The Event” that occurred in the summer ever again, but I feel my hand has been forced.

After opening my home to Dee, offering free accommodation and congenial hospitality, as he attends college, he found it fit to repay me in a most foul manner. He who has been blessed with an athletic prowess that earned him numerous awards, tonnes of trophies, a veritable mountain made of medals and accolades all through high school and beyond, orchestrated a heinous heist.

Sure, in grade 8 I won a home-economics award for sewing my name, Bobby, in pillows. And like all other ankle biters, I was the recipient of Participaction Awards throughout my grade school career. A couple times I even received the top award with the stars across the crest. There were also sundry Cub Scout and air cadet bits and bobs along the way, but for the most part my trophy case has collected little more than dust for the last 25 years.

So imagine my dismay and disgust when I discovered my dear brother, Dee, convinced my previously innocent niece and the ever dastardly IronGirl to STEAL my Golden Whisk. Luckily my Beeton Fall Fair ribbon is in a shadow box or I’m sure that would have gone missing as well.

Adding salt too the wound, and viciously rubbing it in, is the knowledge that IronMan, Dum, stood by while the crime was being committed and did NOTHING to stop it.

My Beech Bake Off trophy is now on a tour of locations unknown and I get horrifying updates of it being found in unseemly locales and compromising positions. The latest update included a photo of it in a snow bank and a caption that reads “having a “great time in our nation’s capital”.

I guess I can only hope to pull the pieces of my baking dreams, shattered like one of my delicate crusts as it's pierced by a fork, back together and with my usual brass bound spirit, overcome this seemingly insurmountable betrayal of trust. Dee better watch it next time we are hunting lest he be mistaken for a big goose.

As an aside, if you have any spare cash lying around, I suggest you invest it in coal mining stocks. Santa is going to need a lot extra when he makes his rounds Saturday night.

Dollhouse Redemption

2011-12-12T10:12:00.001-08:00

Blue Girl, who resides in the dollhouse, just down the street, failed to see how she could be to blame for my new found obsessive concern about my impending waddle. I hope she will be somewhat placated with the knowledge that the pendulum of blame has now swung the other way.

From the same “what book makes you laugh out loud” article in Real Simple, I have found a little slice of heaven. Christopher Moore’s Fool retells Shakespeare’s King Lear from the point of view of a court jester.

Included in this tale are quick witted clowns, back-talking ravens and interrupting ghosts. This cast of characters turns the normally devastating tale into something hilarious. A few select gems that have quite literally had me laughing out loud include:

"Well done lass, not so much as a comma between grief and robbery, and much the better when he's still so fresh his fleas have not sailed to livelier ports. The church wears well on you."

"I was seven before I realized that you could breakfast with your pants on."

"I have it on good authority that her feet are like ferryboats. They strap them up under her gown to keep them from flapping when she walks."

Drool pulled the dampened kitten out of his mouth. "But it were licking me first. You said it was only proper manners -" "I was talking about something completely different. Put the cat down."

A hundred brilliant witticisms died suffocating on the captain's heavy glove. Thus muted, I pumped my codpiece at the duke and tried to force a fart, but my bum trumpet could find no note.

"Did you know, in Portugal they canonize a saint by actually shooting him out of a cannon?"

I know these might seem like right mad ramblings, especially without the context of the novel itself, but they are bloody brilliant is what they are.

If you are after a good chuckle over the holidays, are maybe best you wait until February when the mid-winter blues set in real well like, then this is the place to find it.

Might even have to resurrect ye olde book club so I can spread the good word. Bum trumpet indeed.

I Blame The Dollhouse

2011-12-07T12:48:00.001-08:00

On Thursday evenings, Kitkat, Fauntleroy and I inevitably congratulate ourselves for looking good for our age. It could stem from a conversation about friends with youth stealing children, flipping through one of Kitkat’s magazines or just standing about in front of a mirror as we are prom to doing that you know. Doesn’t matter how, but we always give each other a little “well done”.

Exactly 5 months from today, a decidedly short horizon, I will encounter my 43 birthday. I don’t plan on looking or feeling any different but do anticipate an increased number of cricks and cracks that have come out of nowhere post-40. But yesterday, BAM, the alarm bells started sounding.

I am currently reading “I Feel Bad For My Neck” by Nora Ephron. This is the part where Pink and Blue girl are culpable. ‘Neck’ was selected based on a recommendation in Real Simple, a source I usually find quite reliable in recommending good reads. It was not until I fetched it from the library did I realize it had a definite female slant. Should have considered the source I guess but as it was a guaranteed LOL I thought I’d give it a go.

As the occupants of the dollhouse are the ones who gave me the subscription to Real Simple, this panic is entirely their fault.

Nora states that her doctor, of what ilk I am not sure, told her that it in year 43 you will start reaching for scarves, turtlenecks and other articles of clothing to cover your neck. Why? Because it is at that magical age you start getting the waddle!

And now I only have 5 months to prepare! Why I was not told of this scientific fact earlier is an outrage. On that note, Dr. Fauntleroy is also to blame. He should have shared this medical secret. Jokes on him though, he will turn 43 before me. HA! Or should I say wHAddle?

Researching preventative measures on the Google is as nerve wracking as the impending epidermis elasticity loss. There are both surgical and non-surgical options available. One includes a complimentary facelift and the other is an endless list of creams, potions, exercises, devices and hollow promises.

And you might be surprised how much debate there is out there. One camp states that exercise will accelerate muscle wear and tear and hasten the sag while others claim if “you don’t use it, you lose it”. What if I choose the wrong path? What if years from now there is a definitive breakthrough and all along I do the opposite?

It’s like the great pee debate. They used to think if you held it, in the long run you were building up your bladder's strength and resistance, staving off the need for Depends. But now, now they change their minds and say go when you gotta go!

All hope is not lost however, I refuse to admit defeat. Genes must have something to do with it. As I take after the Cosby side of the family, my spirits were somewhat lifted, and I’m sure that positive energy translated to my neck, when I noted my mother still has a taut neck. Not sure that is the best descriptor, but it sounds better than waddle.

Next time I review the Real Simple list of recommended reads, I am looking for titles like “1001 ways to save your neck” and “43 is not the end of the plunging neckline”. And if they don’t exist, I’ll write them myself!

Titanic Tree

2011-12-05T10:44:00.000-08:00

"It isn’t bigger than the one you had last year” Ironman said as I stared at the tree towering two feet above my head. Despite my saying, and knowing full well, that it was taller, bigger, fuller and heavier than last year’s Christmas tree, it seemed like a good idea to purchase it anyway. Note to self, trees outdoors in a park are not smaller than they appear.

If Ironman’s faith in his statement waivered, or any doubt seeped into his noodle his face didn’t betray it. Not when we had to lay his passenger seat down, remove the headrest and bend the top foot of the tree to get it in the car. Don’t even get me started on the argument about putting it on the roof (that has racks, just FYI).

Not when we realized my fantastic flora specimen had to come in the house throw the second floor balcony because it wouldn’t go through the door from the garage to the house. And not when I had to take an extra four inches off the bottom to get it in the stand and to keep the top from scraping the ceiling did a bead of sweat form on his brow.

Despite all that, she was in place and by far the biggest tree I have ever had. When it comes to certain things, and Christmas tree decorating is one of them, I am NOT a patient man. I told myself, leave it for a day, let it drink and the branches fall. As it was late in the day and I had to feed my man, I turned my attention to other things.

Next morning, I was off to Fergus for a visit with me mum and then went to teach a yoga class. After that, there was no holding me back! I popped the cork on my traditional bottle of tree trimming champagne, prepared a plate of nibbles and got to work on the lights.

Illumination perfection achieved, I opened the first of four, disgusting I know, Rubbermaid bins and started through my twinkling treasures. Side note, four bins is not all I have. These each contained one of this year’s four colours – red, green, gold & assorted traditional, but not touched and still in storage, I have bins of purple, pink, blue, silver and other sundry Christmas décor.

After five hours of talking to my favourite pieces, literally squealing at extra pretty ones I forgot I had, the last of the ornaments was nestled among the branches. A couple times, I chastised myself for not following my tree decorating rules, none of the ornaments can touch and they all must hang freely; ornaments hanging at odd angles on a tree angers me.

The aforementioned ‘last’ one was from the traditional box and was a HUGE hand painted glass Santa whispering to a little girl. It must have weighed a couple pounds. I say ‘was’ and ‘must have been’ as it is no more. I also mentioned my visit to Fergus and mother’s as it is an integral part of this little tale.

After describing my lumber adventures, my wise mother said “I hope you tied it to the wall, you have a lot of glass ornaments”. I told her I did not as there was no need, me being an expert wood erector, and the wall behind the tree has a lovely mirror that reflects the light and there was not place to secure it.

Listen up, your mother’s advice is always something to heed. Maybe not ALL of it at face value, but in there, somewhere is a seed, speck or nugget that you must follow. Setting that aside, and despite having had my own Futility experience years ago (IronGirl still claims her cat was in her room at the time) I ignored the experts for the glitter of the mirror and left my tree freestyle.

Much like the first class passengers of the ship that holds such fascination for me, I went to bed last night, rather proud of myself and with a nice buzz from the bubbles.

Those that know me know I am not a morning person. I don’t sleep until noon or anything and I am usually up by 7:00 on the weekends. But do I jump out of bed with a smile on my face? Nay, gone are the days of full blast Madonna mornings. I need to ease into the day and be thoughtful and deliberate with my actions lest I find myself peeing on the floor or poking myself in the eye with a spoon. Not at the same time or in the same room. Just for the record.

At 5:37 this morning, the sugar plums stopped dancing and I heard the repeated tinkle and pop of glass dancing across the hardwood floor. “No no no no no no…..” was all I could get out as I raced downstairs. If you want me out of bed maintenant, push over my Christmas tree. And that is not a metaphor for anything.

My ears had not deceived me, as I feared, it was ornament carnage. Being a tree snob, I don’t do plastic ornaments so the smash factor was all the more devastating. I am not one to panic and think I would be rather good in an emergency situation. Keep calm and carry on and all that. To back up that claim, I reference the party I went to where a tiki torch leaked oil and caught on fire.

Damp cloths, flour and water attempts at dousing tried and failed, it was I that went to the hall and got the fire extinguisher. I also kept my cool during the pit-bull attack so snaps for me.

Tree down and water already out of the basin, there was no point in trying to right to the tree. It would only lead to another fall and potentially more shattering.

I plucked what favourites I could from the sides of the tree as they were clinging on like those on the overturned collapsible of Titanic herself. Setting vanity and decorating ego aside, I removed the mirror and secured two hooks into the wall and fed twine through. It was then time to raise the tree for the second time.

Securing her with new guy wires, I mopped up what water wasn’t already collected by the tree skirt and then started the search for victims. The death toll wasn’t as bad as I had feared. There were 17 ornament tops in the rubble but I expect, much like the lifeboat found floating months after the Titanic disaster with bodies still in it, I will find more under furniture and down heating vents when I do a good clean in the spring. Among those lost was the JJ Astor of the tree, my monstrous glass ornament from Poland. I have to wonder if it’s weight, much like the ships too small a rudder, was a factor in sealing the trees fate?

Luckily, none of my great-grandmothers ornaments were lost and most of the others I can replace either at Canadian Tire, Kitchen Stuff Plus, Peir 1 or, for my precious Martha Stewart ones, I hope eBay will prove a fruitful replacement stomping ground. It was her red feathered glass ones that produced the tears.

Also unharmed were my corner cabinet, chesterfield, coffee table and sideboard. Falling to the right would have been a fateful blow to my miniature nativity collection and two oil lamps. If they were taken out and there was a spark, who know what might have happened?

As a reminder about the importance of securing my tree in the future, will keep the little girl from the Polish ornament who, aside from being cut off at the knees, I still giving me that “your mother told you so” smile.

I told you so.

Victims above, Off tree survivors below

I blame the drink

2011-11-29T10:13:00.000-08:00

Memories of a 45 minute border crossing, mobs of polyester pant wearing shoppers and lines to get into Target, yes I know, are all that are left of last Friday’s black Friday shopping experience.

Luckily, IronGirl still has her sight despite flinging a forkful of Anchor Bar chicken wing BBQ sauce, utensil included, in her own face. We are still not quite sure how she did it, but one second the fork was resting on the wing platter and the next it was flying through the air towards her melon.

At the same dinner, my niece ordered a seafood linguine alfredo. It came in a serving size bowl and all 5 of us could have had it for dinner. The waitress asked if there was anything wrong with it when my niece said she was done. She had fished out and eaten all the seafood but it hardly made a dent in the portion. Such a waste, but no joke, it was a ridiculous amount of food.

I was forced to buy a jacket that I really don’t need. But when it is $80 cheaper in the US and 50% off, how could I resist. Best I just stay out of A&F from now on. My only other purchase, Christmas gifts aside (I’m done!) was a pair of wool dress pants. I found it next to impossible to find pants that aren’t made of polyester, lycra or some blend of synthetic fabric.

Perhaps I'm set in my ways, but I don't like pants that shine. At least in the literal sense.

Back at the hotel, we modeled our purchases and chatted about what else we ‘needed’ to get. My niece asked if I had more shoes, hats, gloves or scarves. Bit of an odd question but I guessed shoes at approximately 16 pairs. I am glad that shoes were not on my shopping list and that I knew none were needed.

Arriving home, just for the sake of it, I took time to actually count them. In my hall closet alone I have 23 pairs! That includes sandals but is not counting my formal dress shoes, cycling shoes, two pairs of rubber boots, ghillie brogues or slippers. And that is following my “one in one out rule”.

I’m no Imelda Marcos, but for man, even a gay one, if you’ll pardon my saying so, that seems to border on the ridiculous. A purge is order indeed. Will those white leather sandals ever be back in fashion? But really, have they ever not been?

My excess of shoes, many from Cole Hann at the military mall, can be blamed on another US phenomenon ~ cheap booze! After a 2 litre bottle of Absolut for $25 and a 1.25 litre of Napoleon brandy for $14, you’ll excuse me if I am a little free with the visa!

Halloween Continues

2011-11-24T08:31:00.000-08:00

We are only 3 weeks into November, but I have seen more ghosts, goblins and zombies than I did the entire month of October, including Halloween!

Thanks to the delightful Kitkat and his internet prowess, I am keeping current with my Walking Dead viewing. I am 90% sure I drive him nuts with my ‘predictions’ about what is going to happen. Although I was pretty spot on with, spoiler alert, Otis’ demise.

Kitkat also introduced me to the simply delicious American Horror Story.

I hope between now and the age of 50 I follow in the footsteps of one Dylan McDermott. He is #3 on People’s Sexiest Man Alive list this year and I must say, well earned Mr. McDermott. I personally think you trump Bradley Cooper (forgive me Brad).

The shows creators, the same as those that brought us Glee believe it or not, did a grand job of getting you hooked on Dylan’s torso in the first three episodes but now keep it all covered up. Kitkat and I even talked Fauntleroy into watching it with the promise of a bare-chested McDermott but it’s been a dry couple episodes. Oh well, he’s hooked now and there is no turning back.

Perhaps a Glee cross-over with Darren Criss is in order. Put the two of them together with the outfit in the attic and let’s see what happens. What’s in the attic you ask? You’ll have to tune in to find out…..oh, it’s worth it.

After 50, I want to follow in the footsteps of Jessica Lange and be THAT neighbour, houseguest included. Delicious, but don’t eat her cupcakes!

Closing out the gruesome smorgasbord, is The Killing. Not as supernatural or post-apocalyptic as the other two series, this will keep you on the edge of your seat. Mireielle Enos was nominated for, and robbed as she lost, a Golden Globe for her role.

It is a remake of a Swedish, I think, show and will keep you guessing. And if you’re me, pestering Kitkat about what is going to happen next and who did it.

Round Two

2011-11-20T11:46:00.001-08:00

I would forgive your mind straying, just ever so little, if I said I enjoyed a smooth top and you giggled. However, I will redirect you and your mind away from the gutter’s edge by mentioning I am referring to macaroons rather than a person in said position.

Having my brother as a house guest for the weekend provided an excuse, not that I needed one, to take another crack at baking these meringue treats. Learning from last week, when it came time to fold in the sifted sugar and ground hazelnuts, I folded with a little more vigor. At first I thought more that I should have.

I took being able to more or less pour the batter into the piping bag as a sign that I had not achieved the correct texture. My hopes were somewhat buoyed when the mixture held its shape as it landed on the parchment paper. Smooth tops where achieved and a slight skinned formed as they rested.

Not 100% sure they were going to turn out, and of course not wanting to go without dessert, I knocked together an apple pie while the roons rested. IronGirl would arrive later with cupcakes in tow so there ended up being plenty o’ sweet treats.

IronMan was less than impressed that I felt it necessary to wash out the piping bag for a future use. I pointed out that “a dollar is a dollar” and he pointed out that the bags were actually two for a dollar. Still, waste not, want not I say.

My fears, as it turns out, were unfounded and not only did I get macaroons with a smooth surface, I also got what many recipes refer to as ‘legs’, a little crusty ring around the base.

Having not been a huge fan of the dark chocolate ganache, I opted instead for a butter cream filling and they were delicious!

Next weekend, if the addition of some colour is a success, I think these will become a regular during the Christmas season.

Not A Bad First Go

2011-11-13T14:51:00.000-08:00

For the first weekend in a long time, I found myself with time on my hands. No costume to make, no footloaf to mold, no farmer’s market (sadly closed for the season) to visit, no con-ed brother and no shopping to do.

Admittedly, I am rather like a duck to water when it comes to sitting down to a nice pot of tea, or a Pimm’s or two depending on the season, and getting lost in a good book. Two hours can be spent in such a manner and I am perfectly content. Make it lying on the couch on a dull Sunday afternoon with a fur blanket tucked in around me and you can make it three hours. Add a fourth for a nap.

But give me a weekend without a task and I must admit I get a little anxious. My mind frequently wanders to my yet-to-be-realized summer house and all the wonderful things I could get up to. Alas, with what it costs to break a mortgage these days, that little dream will have to wait until next spring.

My postage stamp of a garden in order, urns put away, fountain drained and weather stripping checked I found my idle hands itching for something to do. Not wanting to do the devil’s work, as the saying goes, I turned my attention to the kitchen.

Never having made macaroons before, and knowing how fond IronMan is of them, I set to work assembling a makeshift piping bag (thanks to Kitkat for that little tip) and whipping my egg whites.

I watched several demonstrations on Youtube and think, for a first go, the results achieved were rather good. A little more profiterole looking that I would have liked, but they were crispy on the outside and chewy on the inside.

The puff, rather than smooth top, seems to have occurred due to a lack of folding when the hazelnuts and sugar were folded into the egg mixture. I need to let it collapse a little more before the piping begin.

None-the-less, I am having jolly fun trying different fillings. There was a chocolate ganache from the recipe itself and I have also tried some leftover icing (I’m sure fresh would serve the same purpose), jam, nutella and peanut butter. I don’t recommend that last one though.

By next weekend, I hope to have eaten the 60 sandwiches I made today and come down off what is sure to be a wicked sugar high. I will attempt to perfect the shaping process and add a bit of colour, red and green are in order I think, to get ready for the holidays!

We're baaaaaack! Again.

2011-11-02T08:30:00.000-07:00

Once again, we ruled Church St. on all Hallow’s Eve. Thanks to CJ’s organizational prowess, Gomez, Morticia, Fester, Wednesday, Pugsley, Lurch and Thing hit the town and were stalked like Lindsay Lohan. Kitkat’s warbler outfit gained him a loyal following and a run in with a Cheerio and one Sue Sylvester. I am still not sure if the wielder of the pom-poms was a boy or a girl (or a little bit of both), either way, rockin’ costume.

Hilton’s delightful, and handmade I might add, Louis XIV (did I get that right?) needed a “Hello My Name Is” badge as most people thought he was Mozart. Many also had the nerve to speak to him before being spoken to; very unseemly.We also had Kerouac’s worker bee fending of the groups, and applying make-up, with his assortment of plastic tools. The hammer was a most effective method for blending around ones jaw line.

And dear Papi, poor think almost dehydrated in his Def Leppard rocker-T and head banger wig. Just look at that tiny beer he had. We should take up a collection to get him a proper one.
The Voice, not that I’ve ever heard him sing, was a man of the cloth with a secret. As my mom reads this, enough said for the moment.

The bar has been set – 3 years running we have been the bells of the ball. Oh dear, what shall we do next year? Time will tell……

My Knight and His Steed

2011-10-18T19:35:00.000-07:00

Today I discovered yet another reason why Mayor Ford needs to stop his “war on bikes.” I know he feels the car is under attack, but I have to say cyclists are nicer than drivers. At least Chris, my new hero, is.

As I sped home tonight, I, King of the flat tire, got yet another, you guessed it, flat tire. I was at Queen’s Quay and Bathurst, much too far to walk home and unappealing distant from my usual flat tire repair destination, Mountain Equipment Co-op. After a few texts with IronMan, it was determined that Duke’s was also an option.

Either I hoofed it North and West or North and East but neither was eagerly anticipated. But move I must, so I started up Bathurst. I hadn’t gone 50 meters when someone asked what size I needed.

Clearly, this flat tire had thrown me off my game as I couldn’t think of one decent comeback to such an obvious volley. The young lanky blond lad asked if my tire was a 32 / 320 (or some such thing) and I had no idea what he was talking about. He set aside he bike and started to rummage in his backpack.

I then remembered that I did have a spare tube in my pannier sack. I had purchased it a few flats back with the idea that I would take a course, or at least watch a youtube video, on how to change a tire. Bike maintenance courses are offered for FREE at a couple places in the city and you’d think I would have done something by now. But you would be wrong.

Mother, you would be proud, I finally learned! Chris, my new hero, said today was the day I was going to learn something new. I was hoping for a more exciting rendezvous, but at least I know how to change a flat now. Flip went the bike, off came the wheel and out came the little plastic wedge thing you need to remove the tire.

He had me check the rim for glass, a nail or whatever (dodging what looked like a patch of dog poop) had caused the ‘pop’. He offered handy tips like partially inflating the tube before putting it on the rim but emphasized the importance of letting the air back out before putting the tire back in place. One wants to avoid a pinch. He didn’t actually say “one”, it just sounds better in my story.

I was on my way in less than 10 minutes, smiling all the way home. Scarlett was right after all, you can depend on the kindness of strangers.

Let me give you a hand

2011-10-17T12:46:00.001-07:00

I have now given IronMan yet another reason to be leery asking the “what are we doing this weekend?” question. The answer of “stick your hand in this bucket of goo and don’t move it for 8 minutes” resulted in a doubtful, quizzical look. But as it wasn’t preceded by “do you mind?” he did as he was told and has now been immortalized in plaster! At least his hand has.

After reading about the joys of alginate powder, surprisingly hard to find in Toronto, I was overly excited to start make molds and castings of various body parts. Minds out of the gutter people ~ it is Halloween after all. The good people at Michael’s (the arts and crafts experts) didn’t even know what alginate was but were good enough to sell me a tub of plaster powder. And with my 40% off coupon, happily went on my way.

Sculpture Supply Canada, on the appropriately named Munster Ave, was discovered by IronMan with a few flicks and clicks of his iPhone and we were off to our next destination. Not only did I get the powder I needed, but if I ever want to make rubber masks of my friends (or enemies, less the straws up the nose for breathing) I know where to go.

If I may, I would like to share a couple tips. First, try not to curl your fingers back too much. If you do, put some slightly more watery plaster in the mold first and give it a good shake about. Otherwise you’ll get air pockets and could get the ends of your fingers cut off, and who wants that?

Tip two, if you plan on reusing the mold; keep your fingers relatively straight and closer together. That way, the mold will slip off the cast and you won’t have to cut it into so many pieces it will only be good for a single use.

Finally, for maximum casting size, put your hand, foot etc, deep into the alginate and just touch the bottom then retreat about half and inch.

A sanding of the base here, a bit of sandpaper there and a light coat of grey paint for added pallor and I will have 3 left hands and two right, what fun! I do recommend it as an activity for all.

Now That Is Love

2011-09-27T19:23:00.000-07:00

As you know, I ride my bicycle to work everyday. I believe you are also aware that I am not a parent nor do I purport to be an expert on parenting advice. Although I am pretty sure that today, I witnessed an incident that, much like me award winning pies, would rank me heads and shoulders above my so-called parenting competition.

Waiting for the light to change at Islington and Lake shore, I saw a boy (6 at the outside) riding his bike through the intersection against a yellow at the behest of his father. I will admit that I only got two lines of the conversation, and this is how it went:

Boy - "But what if I get hit by a car?"

Father - "I don't care. Just peddle."

No matter how I framed this in my mind, it just seems wrong. Was the boys first question "what if I get attacked by a dinosaur?" Or was it the hundredth "why is the sky blue" pestering question of the day that provoked this response?

I wonder what other fatherly 'advice' this poor lad have to endure? When he has his first crush, will he be told he is too 'unfortunate looking' for such a pretty girl to like him back?

If he seeks career guidance from his none-helmet-wearing-degenerate papa will his dreams be snuffed out like the cigarette he crushes under his Giant Tiger sneakers? When you're 6 you should be encouraged to be a cowboy, astronaut or fireman and not told "your dreams are too big."

Truth be told, we all have bad days, but to tell your kid you don't care if they get hit by a car is like me telling Johnny Walker he can't be used in my boot flask. It just ain't fittin'.

"Daddy, what if the boogie man comes to get me?"

"I don't care. Just don't scream and wake me up."

Rude.

Holy Peach!

2011-09-16T12:06:00.001-07:00

All I have to say is that it is a good thing, nay, a fantastic thing, that the Beeton Fall Fair is held in a community centre with a barn sized door. Otherwise, I don't know how on earth I would get my huge, first place prize winning, head outside!

That's correct, you read right, I won my FIRST blue ribbon at a county fair! YAY for me!

The Beach Bake Off of last weekend was nothing like Beeton. There were hundreds of entries in the baking section - cookies, cakes, pies, breads....you name it, it was there. I won, not only in category 27, peach pie, but the overall pie prize.

It was also much more official. You had to deliver your wrapped pie to the judging area by 11:30, and following my one hour to make, one hour to bake and two hour to cool rule I made it with 23 minutes to spare, and then it was placed in a glass case, as pie should be, until the judging began.

The fair is on all weekend and the baked goods will be there until Saturday afternoon, so if you fancy a trip to the country and a look at a champion pie, you know where to go.

My Beeton address lending friend, Dever, had bad cell reception so I am not quite sure if there was an overall baked goods winner, so I am still waiting to hear. I will keep you posted as I am sure you are all waiting on pins and needles.

Once I have my summer house Picton better watch out! I am on a roll.

The Golden Beater

2011-09-11T16:19:00.000-07:00

A slightly less blue movie title would be ‘The Golden Whisk’ I suppose. But, call it what you will, I won it! It is not the best picture, but that is me in the middle, flanked by the managing director of Dufflets and someone from CityTVs breakfast television.

Their names are not important, although Daniele from Dufflets was charming. What matters is what is in my hand and that my gingery pear pie won the 2011 Beach Bake Off! And I don’t mean in just the pie category either. My perfectly flaky, still warm, amazingly browned crusted treasure walked all over the cakes, cookies and loaves!

While I will need to have my own plaque made to attach to the base, the golden whisk of happiness is mine! Encouragement from IronMan saw me rise at 7:00 to enter my first baking competition. An hour to make, an hour to bake, two hours to cool, one quick trip up the street to the Corpus Christi Church and it was game on.

Admittedly I was nervous. I envisioned an army of Stepford Wives arriving in hummers and high-end SUVs with goods baked by their live in Mary Poppins’. Oh how I sighed when I saw a ragtag band of mothers, each with at least two, remora like parasitic children sucking the life out of them.

My panic then became one of the pinched nose variety, what if pear and ginger was too much for this crowd? Had I gone too far? Luckily I had vetoed the green tomato pie and opted for what I thought was a beach area appropriate entry.

Dufflet Daniele said she was concerned that the ginger would overpower the pears but that I had achieved “the perfect balance”. BAM! That was all I needed. When Jonathan reached for the trophy, my nails dug into the arm of IronMan, my pulse quickened and then I heard my name, announced by the Triangle Area’s event MC, MadDog from Virgin Radio!

Snaps for me! The rest of the pie was sliced up and sold to raise money for the crohn’s foundation. For a little taste test of my own, I bought an oatmeal raisin cookie (great taste, still soft ~ my biggest competition), a slice of vanilla (from a box) cake and a piece of banana loaf (a stitch too dry).

Like ‘The Event’ from earlier in the summer, I mustn’t let this go to my head and I won’t be speaking of it again for one needs to keep an eye on the real prize. The Beach Bake Off was just a precursor, a warm-up if you will, to next weekend’s Beeton Fall Fair.

If all goes well, the Fall Fair circuit will fill my retirement days when they arrive ~ come on lotto 6/49! I will start slowly over the next few years and, hopefully, build a ‘best in show’ reputation for my blue ribbon creations. Look out Beeton, here I come!

Peeves of the Week

2011-09-02T08:40:00.001-07:00

Apes, chocolate cake and Rob Ford, I am sure you can mix ‘n match these to come up with a variety of reasons why these things go together. But for me, they compile my week’s list of pet peeves.

Apes, as in The Rise of the Plant of them. IronGirl and I went to see this movie that I have heard surprisingly good things about. I must concur with the 3 out of 4 star ratings that I have read. Good story, casting in some cases better than the acting and spectacular special effects.

The AMC audience however gets a 1 star. A mostly empty theatre raised expectations of an enjoyable movie going experience, not so. Two young brutes parked themselves behind us and yip-yapped during the previews. Feigning fear during the Paranormal 3 preview, they screamed like wee girls.

Such Tom foolery continued once Apes started to roll and I asked them to “please be quiet” and to give them credit, they zipped it. Who I assumed was their father, delayed at the concession stand, came in a few minutes later with a girl about 6 years old in tow.

During the movie, she treated us by reading the subtitles (when Caesar used sign language) and mimicking the grunting of the apes. Twice, her father said “cover your eyes for this part”. Really? Isn’t that an indicator that maybe you should have picked another movie?

Not to spoil it, but there was scene on the bridge where she started to cry. Again, really? Pretty sure Toy Story 12 is playing just down the hall. Not proud of it, but she too was asked to zip it. And, melting into her seat, she did. I hope she enjoyed her nightmares though and blue ribbon to her dad for “Parent of the Year”.

Chocolate cake, specifically chocolate stout Bundt cake. I know, sounds good right? Real Simple reeled me in with their combination of chocolate and Guinness, my typical breakfast. Despite eggs, sour cream, stout and chocolate it was disappointingly dry. Not that it stopped me from licking the pan clean like a dog.

The folks at work raved about it and while I did not deem it card worthy, I will make one more attempt at it while upping the sour cream to ¾ c. and adding a stitch more stout and a splash of milk. Stay tuned for review 2.

Rob Ford, our genius mayor. I am all for ‘cutting out the fat’, ‘stopping the gravy train’ or, insert your favourite cost saving expression here. I will also preface this peeve by acknowledging the fact that the “war on the car is over” and, as far as I can tell, has shifted to the bike.

Not sure what he can ‘cut’ or ‘stop’ in Toronto’s Recreation and Parks department but perhaps an upgrade is needed. For those familiar with Toronto’s New Blue Edge bike path, you might recall that just west of Ontario Place, it forks to the north or to the south.

With the CNE in full swing, they use the surrounding park for air show seating, parking and other sundry activities. Heading west the other day, the route to the south was fenced off with a detour sign pointing north. At the west end of the path however, it was gated and closed.

Heading east, you were forced to take the southerly route, closed at the other end. Again, truly genius. If Rob Ford and his team find any more gravy to get rid of, perhaps they will move the bike path into the lake. A tough slug to be sure but I guess you would at least stay cool.

Post Event

2011-08-15T19:43:00.000-07:00

As stated in my last post, I will treat the event of last weekend like Lord Voldemort’s name in the Harry Potter series. It shall not be named. Labeled “The Event” yes, but named, no.

In addition then, to said Event, was another bonus from the Highland Games weekend. As dad was an avid gardener, IronGirl and I planted his two beds this year to keep up his hobby for him.

We even grew tomato plants from seed starting them on his Lee Valley plant incubator. There have only been 3 cherry tomatoes to date but there are more on the way.

It must be noted that being a vegetable gardener in absentia does not work well. Mother was more than willing to water but the weeds were a bit much for her. And as a weed is a plant growing someplace we don’t want it to, they enjoyed the water and spread like, well, weeds.

Already consumed, ‘straight from the earth’, we have had several heads of lettuce, green and yellow beans, and just enough fat pea pods to compliment a couple meals.

Additionally, this weekend we harvested:
• 2.5 pints of raspberries (.5 was consumed and the other 2 are on their way to becoming raspberry gin for the Christmas holidays)
• 2 heads of romaine lettuce
• 12.6 pounds red of potatoes
• 3 beets (something ate most of the tops before they could get going and that is too bad as me loves a pickled beet)
• I lost count of how many onions (half of which are pickling in malt vinegar and will be sweet balls of goodness in a few months)

Still to come are blackberries (they need a bit more sun), 3 jumbo acorn squash (they need a frost) and I hope one more batch of raspberries.

It’s a good thing that dad taught us well. The Event took a lot out of me and I need to replenish my energy stores.

3 bottles and 10 km

2011-08-14T14:09:00.000-07:00

I did it! I won my first family foot sports challenge at this year’s Fergus Highland Games 10 km race! Not since Baco Noir and I made the Irons eat dust on our bicycles at Versaille have I ruled the race track!

To be clear, I was not first first, but first out of our group. Granted my nephew, who runs as quickly as the gazelles being chased by cheetahs I saw in Tanzania wasn’t there. Nor was Fauntleroy who is light on his feet in more ways than one. He hasn’t done the race for a couple years so technically, according to my rule book, doesn’t count.

But both IronMan and IronGirl were in the race and despite my sister’s grabbing my shirt slow me down, I was first across the line! Last week IronMan and I went for a practice run and was surprised to find myself slowing down so he could keep pace. He’s done that more than one time for me so I didn’t mind. But in a race, it’s every man for himself! Dog eat dog and all that jazz.

For one fleeting moment I felt bad as I passed him but it didn’t last.

One must give credit where and when it’s due so I need to thank the man in the orange Running Room shirt. I don’t know who you are, but cheers! Around 7km in, off in the distance I heard someone sawing a log. There was that “voompa, voompa, voompa” sound and it steadily grew more distinct.

After another km as I closed in on the heels of Mr. Orange I realized it was his breathing! I soon grew tired and very annoyed with it a decided I either had to slow down or get far enough ahead of him so I wouldn’t have to listen to that.

There really was no option. I also feared falling back would obligate me to stop and help him when he collapsed. I was not losing my victory over the IronLords so I fart-licked my way well in front of Orangina.

I have no idea why it’s called a fart lick, but to break up the monotony of a run, and believe you me it is monotonous, you run as fast as you can to a marker of your choosing and then ease off or walk for a smidge.

Option A, walking, was not going to happen as I could faintly hear “voompa” bringing up the rear. IronGirl had also tried to spook me but sticking right behind me the first bit whispering "Robert" in my ears. I distinctly heard that on the breeze as well so full speed ahead was my only choice!

As I mentioned, I did a trial run with IronMan and squeezed in two others; one during our Lake Placid trip and the other one night after sweet potato fries and a pint of Hoegaarten. I figure I ride my bike to work and that is same as running despite IronMan telling me repeatedly, and correctly, that it is not.

Both today and on our trial run, post Placid, he said his legs were just not into it and felt like tree trunks. They are, in a sturdy, muscular way, just about as large so not sure what he was expecting.

Rigorous is not a word I would use to describe my training regime. About 48 hours before the 10 km, Kitkat, Fauntleroy and I settled in for our usual Thursday night. I find it funny that his Lordship still feigns shock and awe at the end of the evening when three empty bottles are stacked in front of us.

It’s either that, or two bottles and empty pre-dinner cocktail glasses. Either way, I didn’t carbo-load and should have trained more.

As a result, my time wasn’t great, 51:13 (19th in my age group and 71st out of 149 racers) but good enough for a personal best. Snaps for me.

I am aware that pride is one of the deadly sins so I will say no more about the sweet taste of my triumphant domination of the family. It will go down as one for books. Enough said.

Heat and Calories

2011-08-01T13:23:00.000-07:00

As much as I adore food and indulging at every opportunity, this hot weather has certainly put a damper on my appetite. Summer activities have also curbed some of my usual routine. It may sound simple, but roller blading, running and recreational patio hoping have put quite a damper on things like reading.

My apres work routine is a selection of last fall's pickling endeavours - beets, onions, beans and asparagus - some cheese, all washed down with a glass (or two) of Pernod. This is also my chance to chat with my neighbours and read the Steig Larsson trilogy. I must admit I rather like them more than I had anticipated. The books that is, not my neighbours.

One thing that has piled up though are my Real Simple & Living magazines. LSC also gave me a stack of Hello Canada and Kitkat the GQ with Captain America and that put me even further behind schedule.

But one long weekend, a jumbo umbrella for shade and a pitcher of iced tea was all I need to flip my way to the bottom. Back to my earlier food fascination comment, I found myself overly excited at the July Real Simple cover ~ 3 Ingredient Recipes. Fast, Fresh, Delicious.

Further froth and foam exuded forth when they quoted Nora Ephron on page 2. "I don't think any day is worth living without thinking about what you're going to eat next at all times". A woman after my own heart indeed. I could hear Papi cheering "YAY!" as I read.

Imagine then my disappointment when, on page 117, in the Health Guide that six top health experts recommend the following for "good tasting staples and snacks":

• A SMALL spoonful of almond butter (picture shows about 1 tsp.)
• Frozen grapes to stave off an ice cream craving
• Sardines

Now I know, Nora is not one of the purported experts but something here just doesn't jive. It's a bit like picking up Martha's annual Halloween guide and finding out how to decorate for Easter.

I will admit that some of the 3 ingredient recipes were indeed tempting and they shall be taste tested. But Real Simple, come on, when you show TWO of your three ingredient dishes on the same plate it adds up to SIX. Chicken with lemons and olives + arugula salad with white beans and pesto......SIX!

Anyway, heat or not, sardines and a teaspoon of almond butter are not things I look forward to.....ever! But here is a tried and true Nigella Lawson recipe that 3 people can easily handle any evening of summer. Even though it says "serves 8 - 10".

Iron Weekend

2011-07-28T09:32:00.000-07:00

Another year another 6 successful IronMan participants! Congrats to all! IronGirl had to help one of the boys on the swim as he only started swimming lessons last fall. For the first time ever!

The energy in Lake Placid during an IronMan is amazing and as Baco Noir pointed out, it is awfully tempting to sign up. Inspired by the novice swimmer I thought I would attempt one loop of the swim course but after about 200m heard the Vancome lady in my head: “chaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, know vat? Uh-uh”.

I have to say though, not that this applies to anyone in our group, if your bike is worth 12 grand and you are wearing a $300 helmet that makes you look like spunk, you need to finish in the top 20 or stop wearing that. Clearly, it is the carpenter and not the tools. One wise guy slit a 1.5 litre water bottle along one side and duct taped it to his regular helmet. “This cost $.99” was scrawled on the side with a sharpie. Bravo I say!

I too had an endurance test this weekend and it was between technology and my patience. Keep in mind I am a little slow when it comes to adapting technology. If advancements in civilization were up to those as inventive as I, we would still be living in caves and killing our dinner with rocks, or finding it under them if we were feeling particularly lethargic.

Proudly, my home is still equipped with a rotary phone and after much badgering by friends and family alike I caved and got a cell phone last year. Despite promises of endless text conversations by my niece and nephew, I am still waiting as they have not come to fruition.

GPS in hand, mother and I headed for Lake Placid and all was fine until we approached any small town en route. Then, Starbuck Sally, or whatever her name is would try to take us around it as the “fastest route”. Fastest my eye! Even when you changed your request to “most direct”, “no toll” or anything else she did as she pleased. Typical woman really.

Frustration grew when someone (I won’t name names but there were only two of us in the car and it wasn’t me) dropped a piece of chocolate on the screen and in an attempt to clean it had us going to Garden City New Jersey instead of Garden Way (the name of the street we were aiming for).

The same foolishness took place on the way home. “Turn Left” directions added 4 miles to our route for no reason I could determine. I had visions of Albert and Rita getting led astray in the Nevada desert.

“Lost in Upstate New York” ~ I could see headlines that sounded oddly like a Sophia Coppola movie right before my eyes. Fortunately, my patient mother is used to my technological ineptitude and took it all in stride. Sally eventually got us there but not in anything that even slightly resembled a straight line.

From here on out, it’s a Pearly’s paper map for me, it doesn’t talk back!

So Confusing!

2011-07-06T20:23:00.000-07:00

My whirlwind of entertainment continued this evening as I had a private show with Hugh Jackman. Everyone else in the theatre was non-existent and he was singing just for, and to, moi!

First a Happy 38th Birthday to my friend the Maltese Falcon, you are not having a mid-life crisis, you will have a baby and you will find a man. It just won’t be Hugh Jackman. Or will it? It’s all too much.

We are just home from his one Man Show and Kitkat, Kerouac, Baco Noir and IronGirl, hold on to your hats as you are in for one hell of a treat! Well maybe not IronGirl so much as she likes neither boys nor musicals but you will fall under the influence of the energy I am sure!

Mr. Jackman obviously has ample equipment to play on my team, and in my dreams, hopes, prayers, voodoo doll experiments, Ouija board games and fantasies he is an all star slugger. But I must admit he has now left me dazed and confused.

He had me hook, line and sinker with the first number but then almost lost me on the second. His rendition of One Night Only flanked by two, how shall I put this, beards? Did not sit well at all and I was wondering where his velour tracksuit was and if I had been teleported to Las Vegas some how.

After that ever so minor blip, it was smooth sailing! He had me crying with a story about his dad (it is one year tomorrow that my dad passed away so it was even a bit more of a blub than usual) and, yes that is twice in one night, the ukulele version of over the rainbow.

He had us laughing with his video clips, jokes, audience participation and quick wit. Surely a man that can do all that while singing and dancing must at least occasionally, well, you know, dip his toe in the other pool.

But then he tried to go all girl on us and came out dressed up as, and singing a la, Peter Allen and all I could think was “damn, that is one straight dude”. Note, when he mentions he won an Oscar, you bitches better clap.

A few spectacular numbers later and he was back out in his regular garb high kicking like a Radio City Rockette and I was thinking “weeeeeeeeeeeellllll”. His ode to the great Musicals ~ Singing in the Rain, Sing Sing Sing etc. ~ also added a tick under the “my team” column.

Even if he is straight, not that there’s anything wrong with that, per se, he is one talented man. And oh what a man.

If you don’t already know, it is a 90 minute show (almost two hours really) and there is no intermission. I suggest a couple Queen Mother gin martinis before heading to the theatre. You don’t need the buzz but it helps Hugh keep his attention on you.

Entertainment Weekly!

2011-07-01T09:57:00.000-07:00

I may not get my mash-up dream of Rufus and Amy but I am not wanting in the entertainment department, at least this week.

Kitkat and his blog are a building force to be reckoned with. He is now getting free tickets to shows and meals at restaurants due to his legion of loyal followers. I was his “plus 1” for the Toronto premier of 9 to 5 the musical at the North York Centre for the Performing Arts.

I had often heard of Dan’s Cap productions before but clearly didn’t pay much attention as I always that it was Dance Cap (not wondering what that could possibly mean). But there is actually a man named Dan and he wears a Cap and there you have it. He kicked off the evening by introducing the show and plugging other productions that were up and coming.

Stating that the show was “direct from Kansas” made me squirm a little in my seat and I was confused as to how that was a selling point. But free ticket in my pocket and Rickard’s Red buzz going on, I decided to just go with it. I LOVED the movie growing up and it did have Dolly Parton in it for goodness sake.

‘Live’, via jumbotron, she kicked off the show and I have to say I laughed at all the right bits and generally enjoyed it. ‘Backwoods Barbie’ was worked into the mix and aside from the actor that played Mr. Hart, I thought, for what my humble opinion is worth, the characters were rather good.

During the “how we would kill Mr. Hart” number, Violet looked like Jennifer Saunders dressed for a Madonna impersonation and I was hoping she would, just once, say “darling, sweety” but it was not meant to be. Oh well.

Kitkat also got hit on at intermission, by a doctor no less, but he was quickly dismissed. If you have the time and a spare $50, I don’t think I would pay more, I say head north and take it in!

And, just last night I got to see Ms. Russell Brand at the ACC and she was a treat indeed! IronMan was all over his iTouch the day tickets went on sale and we had quite good seats for the candy and cupcakes.

After seeing her perform on SNL and reading some of the reviews I set my expectations quite low. But when Papi asked me to rank the concert, I have to say she tied for second place with Madonna’s Girlie Show which is right behind the Spice Girls (and you all know how I feel about that!)

Katy was quirky, funny and at one point went floating by on a large pink cloud. Her costumes had motorized parts and she even played the guitar. The mother next to me was overly enthusiastic about the lyrics from ET “fill me with your poison” et al. She seemed to be encouraging her daughter a little more than she should have but then again, I guess “Two Become One” by the Girls was the same in its day.

Peacock was deliciously provocative with her white gloved dancers spraying their fingers from their loins when Katy said “come on take a shot” but the 14000 14 year old girls and their mother’s seemed to think it was fabulous. I hope you enjoy being grandmothers in your 30’s.

My only criticism, slight as it is, was that she missed an excellent opportunity to plug Toronto Pride when she was singing “You’re So Gay”. You could tell she wanted to say something but she then promised the parents in the audience that she would keep it PG.

Next week my entertainment really ramps up when I get to see Mr. Hugh Jackman live and in person. The Maltese Mama knows her way around the backstage at the theatre from her stocking of Nick Adams so I might get Hugh to autograph something for me!

Hopes Dashed

2011-06-22T18:04:00.000-07:00

I only asked Santa and the Easter Bunny for one thing this year! One thing and their combined forces could not even make it happen. Why do these things always happen to me?

On New Year's Day my horoscope even said "expect things you want this year". Well let me tell you, I expected, but now this. Now you tell me that despite being clean, supposedly, for 3 years that Amy Winehouse was such a train wreck that she got booed off the stage during the FIRST show of her comeback tour and has cancelled the rest!

Granted she was in Serbia and they probably ran out of vodka or something. That would be like me running out of gin, I would boo myself.

Now my hopes of a joint Rufus Wainwright / Amy Winehouse tour stop in Toronto will never happen. Come on Amy. Golly, get it together! I mean you managed to walk across an entire lawn wearing 4 inch heals in your video but you can't sober up?

I guess this is as close to live Amy as I will ever get.....

Glee!

2011-06-17T11:17:00.001-07:00

Okay, so it's not exactly the next day, I know Kitkat has already informed you all of the joy and the Glee kids have probably toured four other cities by now, but since I watched the Glee reality show last night (not a fan) with the boys, I will put my two cents in anyway.

First, the concert. It was a good deal of fun and well worth the price of admission (I was Kitkat's guest and free is always fabulous). The ACC was set up with jumbo screens if you were seated too far back but with a second stage I don't think there was a bad seat in the house.

One stage was dark while the other was illuminated. Not 30 feet in front of us we had the Warblers, Mercedes and more cheerios than were needed. My two favourite, Blaine cuteness aside, songs were also performed right in front of us.

First, Kurt and Rachel's rendition of Get Happy was amazing. And it was not back's turned to us either. They were very good at spinning around on their bar stools to make sure everyone got a look at the goods! Unfortunately, at one point, Kurt ran out of spin and had to just skid around the top. The show must go on as they say. A Friday treat for you:

Second, and no I do not have a crush on Kurt, was his version of All the Single Ladies! He even had his own army of dancers! All you Glee fans have seen that one to death so here is the hilarious version with Justin Timberlake to tickle your funny bone. Hee hee, I said bone. Not as funny without the skit bit, but still.....

Whirlwind Winnipeg Weekend

2011-06-13T17:16:00.000-07:00

The Diva is now a married lady and I am tired. Friday at 6:45 AM, Blue Girl from the dollhouse whipped me off to the airport and by 8:00 I was airborne. Not me alone you understand, but I was in a plane that was in the air.

IronMan had packed me a little snack pack for the trip. I truly appreciated that as I viewed the Air Canada menu. They seem to think $6.50 for a very substandard egg McMuffin is perfectly reasonable. I would like to know why an egg, an English muffin and paper thin slice of what they call 'ham' should cost more than a beer? I can get a buzz for $6 and gut rot for $6.50. Hmmmmm...what to do?

Once my feet were back on the ground, I was greeted by Kitkat and his ever so charming parents. They whisked me off to the Pancake House where I enjoyed scrambled eggs with smoked salmon and a bagel for, are you listening Air Canada, for $8.99! Just because you have people by the short and curlys doesn't mean you need to twist it for pleasure.

It was a stitch cool but I was told it was best to enjoy it. Apparently you get about two good weeks of summer in the Peg before Buick sized mosquitoes have you running from building to building.

Apres breakfast we went to the Fort Garry Hotel. Like all the great railway hotels of her day, the public rooms are grand, sumptuous and decadent. The four gays from Toronto were notably impressed. The guest rooms are in desperate need of an update and we quickly discussed what needed to be done to bring them up to snuff.

But they were clean, nice and bright and the pillow top mattresses made everything alright. Kitkat and I shared 206. We wanted 202 but it only had a queen bed and I need a king. 202 is apparently haunted by a lady who hung herself in the closet shortly after the hotel opened.

Why you would pick a tiny little closet when there were so many fantastic ballrooms, bars and quaint little antechambers is beyond me. Heck, even the banister running up the centre of the hotel would give you more space to spook.

We hoped to encounter the ghost as she moved through the rooms on the way to 202 and maybe we did. But as Kitkat pointed out, spirits, ghouls and goblins could have been jumping on our beds, but after 7 hours of an open bar, we didn't notice.

Kitkat is convinced that the haunted nonsense is a marketing ploy as there is no historical account of any one story on record and those that are seem flimsy at best. For example, as a thank you, so legend has it, the hotel invited all the workers and their families to spend a night in the hotel and, depending on the version you hear, the woman did her closet swan song.

Fauntleroy was quick to point out that in 1913 you were lucky to get a shilling for a days wage let alone a night in a luxury hotel. One interesting story about a ghostly encounter at the Fort Garry was documented by 'Alicebathedinblood.'

I have said it before and I will state it for the record again, I am NOT a parent. Alice bathed in blood - I get that. Vampires are all the rage; I like True Blood and am a tent pitching member of Camp Jacob. But booking your 15 year old daughter, who I assume you know has a boyfriend, a night in a hotel? That seemed like a good idea?

Alice also says, twice I might add, that she stayed in room 202 BUT had to "walk up the many flights of stairs to the 6th floor where the room was." Really Alice? Ever been in a hotel before? Maybe you should stay home and do your math homework.

Wow. Tangent. Kilt around my waist, we headed for the church for a truly amazing wedding. Diva is an opera singer and she stacked that church with professional musicians and singers and it was FAB-U-LOUS. She looked, as usual, gorgeous and the weather couldn't be better.

Rice flung, man with the backside of his pants split open informed and subsequently bundled off, bride & groom off in the wedding car we started the hunt for a cab. Winnipeg is no Toronto or NY when it comes to hailing a taxi. They are available at hotels, malls and the airport but forget about flagging one down; especially if two in your party are dressed in kilts.

To help pass the time Fauntleroy tripped a child who happened to look at him and his outfit the wrong way. Mean to be sure, but once it was ascertained there was no permanent damage done, except maybe to the sidewalk where his melon landed, it was worth a good chuckle.

A couple of cocktails and a verbal redecoration of the lobby bar later we made our way to 7th heaven, a.k.a. the 7th floor (that is where all the rooms that start with the number 7 are Alice) for the reception.

The bar was open, the food was excellent (at least I think it was by way of the gin) and Kevin the singer could sing the pants off a snake (that’s a thing right?) Aside from me hearing “Costco” instead of “Moscow” when I asked a table mate where she got her ring, I managed not to embarrass myself too horribly.

I was late to bed but early to rise, I was in the gym by 8:00 and after a more-than-I-should-have buffet, I was off to even loftier heights ~ 10Spa. More on the hamam tomorrow as I have prattled on just about enough now.

But, after 3 hours there, Kitkat and I zoomed off with his parents yet again for some shopping and then dinner at one of Winnipeg’s many casinos. Who knew the Aztecs were famous for their prime rib special? Not I. No sir, not I.

Saying no to the slots, we left his parents to their one armed bandits and took in X-Men First Class. You had me with Kevin Bacon and his chocolate but then you lost me with the flying submarine.

Another 8:00 AM flight got us back to Toronto in time to drop our bags (and do a load of laundry) before heading to the ACC for the Glee concert! As with the hamam, I will detail that experience later.

But I will leave you with this, Air Canada, whether in the air or at the foot of Yonge St. likes to stick it to people when it comes to beer prices. $6 on the plane and $12 at the ACC, you rob the people! And you wonder why I wear a boot flask.

Card Worthy

2011-06-02T20:09:00.000-07:00

There are few things I enjoy more than cooking a yummy, delicious, rich, low calorie meal. One of them however is preparing a yummy, delicious, rich meal for people who appreciate it and Kitkat and Fauntleroy not only fall into that category, they helped create it.

They are also wonderful, and willing, guinea pigs. Between the Dollhouse Girls providing me with issues of Martha and Real Simple, LCBO’s Food & Drink and my collection of cookbooks, there are always new creations to create, baked goods to bake and flambés to, well, flambé.

In a fit of cleansing, last week I thumbed through 2 years worth of Martha and tore out an assortment of treats to make. I then hauled the remainder of the magazines to work where they were quickly snatched up from the kitchen.

Aside from a disastrous blending of grilled mini bananas and mascarpone cheese, my boys have been, I like to think, handsomely rewarded via my experiments. And it must be said that I too am spoiled with deliciously satisfying meals from my Thursday night counterparts.

Tonight though, there were not old stand-bys, it was all new. Whenever I make something from a magazine, it is deemed card worthy or not. Another purge / cleansing ritual is to mount the yummy creations on recipe cards and neatly house them in my recipe box. Otherwise, into the recycling bin they go.

We had four card mount worthy contenders this evening. While not the 12 course Victorian era dinner I would like, I do have a full time job you know, it certainly was a nice quarter. Starting to eat at 8:00 PM helps with the prep.

I will concede that the first course hardly counts as such, but when it is paired with what Martha calls “the love child of wine and Champagne”, it earns its own place. I at least hope it was Martha and not that poindexter Jay Sharkey that writes for her. Never met him, but a cake made out of Oreos is NOT Martha, it’s lazy.

Lambrusco, I have decided, will be the drink of the summer. Agreed, it ‘does deserve as much attention as other sparkling wines’, but I hope not too much as the $8.90 / bottle price will surely be a thing of the past. Pair it with presquille from Quebec and a spicy chorizo and BAM! First course complete.

The second course was not ‘new’, but asparagus is in season so in terms of freshness of ingredients, I am calling it such. I have already pickled some of the lovely young pieces as well that will remind me of the spring when winter rolls around again. Did I really just say that?

I then quite literally tore a page from Martha Stewart for roasted parsnip bread pudding that was a side of fluffy goodness dotted with roasted treats. It was paired with a pork roast stuffed with Vidalia onions and rose wine sauce. Both were a tick fussy but not at all complicated and the results were tres tres bien!

And finally, while we watched The Killing (Kalifornia Fauntleroy, that is where she is from) we devoured a rhubarb upside-down cake. The caramelized sides took a scrumptious dessert to a decadent level.

The food was good, the friends were fun and the fizz was fabulous…what else can one ask for on a Thursday?

It's No Palm D'or Winner

2011-05-23T18:17:00.001-07:00

As you know, Kitkat has brought into my life one of the best series ever – The Walking Dead. Season 1 was a gift for my birthday along with Russell Brand’s (who for the life of me I can’t explain my bizarre attraction to but am pretty sure it has something to do with Get Him to the Greek) NY stand-up DVD.

Not nearly as good as ‘Greek’, nor as funny as his Booky Wook, it still made me LOL and his tight low-rise trousers allowed me to grant it a solid 6.5 out of 10.

I would have to rank these in order of discussion above in terms of fantasticness. Also included in the ‘my friend doesn’t have cable’ gift pack definitely takes the bronze medal, the re-make of the ‘80s outer space mini-series V. I guess alien mini-series is a more accurate definition as it didn’t physically take place in space. In the outer sense at least, not the ‘time & space’ sense.

It wasn’t so off that I didn’t watch the entire thing, but there was something about it I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

Then I saw and advert for ‘an all new episode of CSI Miami’ and it hit me ~ every character in the show delivers their lines like David Caruso. Gems like “Ryan, is your intel good?”, “No, the doctors were wrong, he is your father” and, my personal favourite, “I will do whatever it takes to blow the bitch out of the sky” didn’t do it for me in the way they should have.

To boot, the eye candy selection is not on par with sugar mountain. The one piece up for grabs was only on screen for 45 seconds before Anna did the praying mantis thing on his ass.

Admittedly, I would like to see one or two ship full of lizards get their comeuppance, but I might have to try and find it on youtube.

The Answer Is So Simple!

2011-05-16T14:42:00.000-07:00

On the weekend I was listening to Day 6 with Brent Bambury on CBC Radio and heard a story that made me think. Yes, that is possible.

He was interviewing a Mexican poet by the name of Javier Sicilia. It seems señor Sicilia has vowed to stop writing poetry until the drug wars in Mexico are over. His reasons are personal and profound to be sure, but I had to wonder if that same logic could be applied to other conflicts around the globe?

Perhaps an envoy dispatched to Afghanistan could wag its collective finger at the Taliban and threaten "no more mime for you!" I am sure wicked ways of the west would soon find favour with them.

And surely Kim Jong-Il would be wrapped around Obama's (not Osama's) little finger, a veritable ball of putty in our hands, if we actually followed through with our "no more Lindsay Lohan films" threat.

Who needs guns, bombs and war when we have such stash of readily available, cheaper alternatives?

Bitter. Sweet.

2011-05-14T14:49:00.000-07:00

As time marches towards the first anniversary of my father’s passing, I find myself thinking of him more and more. It could be the date itself but I think it is also due in large part to our much delayed spring. He loved the outdoors (even in the winter) but now that we are puttering around the yard getting mom settled for the season, I think of him with every turn of the spade and every new flower that bursts into bloom.

Last week I clipped some flowers but this week is even better because it’s the first harvest of the season I can eat! Rhubarb is back and loving all this rain. I am just home with 4.56 pounds of the oversized licorice coloured delight.

Fauntleroy and Kitkat will partake with me tomorrow when we settle in and watch our ‘I don’t know what season-th’ finale of Survivor together. Actually, since they moved the wrap-up to Sunday’s, we rarely watch the end together and often don’t even know who won. As a wise woman once said “it doesn’t matter what show your watching, it’s who you’re watching it with.”

The usual accompaniment for rhubarb is strawberries, but our pie will be ALL rhubarb with a nice touch of orange zest. What is left, and what I can harvest next week will become one of the truly finest jams known to man.

We will also get to enjoy fresh chives on our mashed potatoes!

On a less happy father related note, Cabernet and The Sergeant placed a lovely pot of tulips on his grave a few weeks ago to help him ring in the spring. The long, wet, cool weather had kept the blooms tightly shut and were just waiting for a nice day to explode.

Last Sunday, on Mother’s Day, someone pinched the lot. Pot and all! And no, they were not cleaned up by the maintenance staff or thrown in the compost pile. I checked. And all the decorations on other stones were left as is.

So, if there are any mothers out in the greater Fergus area, who got an unexpected gift from your usually unreliable, cheap, delinquent son (or daughter)….they are still all those things. Plus a grave robber!

Suddenly, I like hockey.

2011-05-10T15:43:00.000-07:00

Well, we finally have ONE professional athlete on our side! After watching this video of NHL player Sean Avery, of the New York Islanders (look at me talkin' all butch) I was saddened to hear about the backlash he has endured for making this 30 second spot.

There are retired, professional athletes that support gay marriage (gay themselves or not) but not a single, active member of any professional sports organization in North America has come out in support of it.

I'm sure that Europe is different. As they ask in Legally Blonde, "is he gay or European?" Ahhhh, one more reason to move to France.

As for Todd Reynolds (gay name by-the-way - Todd) of Uptown Sports Management who tweeted it's "Very sad to read Sean Avery's misguided support of same-gender 'marriage.' Legal or not, it will always be wrong." And then went on to "To clarify. This is not hatred or bigotry towards gays. It is not intolerance in any way shape or form. I believe we are all equal."

Really? We're all equal? Really? So if I say certain people should ride in the back of the bus because of their colour. That's okay as long as I say I'm not being "intolerant." "Ms. Parks, I'm going to have to ask you to move to the back of the bus. We need this seat for a straight white person. But don't you worry, I still think we're equa.....oh wait, no I don't. Move to the back."

Oh, hey, while we're at it, those same people can use separate public pools and drinking fountains. And, just for kicks, let's move an entire race of people away from the west coast (I'm referring to the Japanese after Pearl Harbour - thought I might have to spell that one out for you Toddy)and confiscate all their possessions in the name of "tolerance."

He also tweeted: "But I believe in the sanctity of marriage between one man and one woman. This is my personal viewpoint. I Do not hate anyone."

Again. Really? You don't hate anyone? Sounds to me like your not a real big fan of us. But why split hairs, oh wait, that's right, you don't have any to split. Snap.

Thank you Sean! Todd, you can suck it and I hope at least one of your three kids plays on our team! Snap.

And I'm Not Even a Mother!

2011-05-08T06:23:00.000-07:00

I love spring!

Post an early mother's day brunch, I set to work in mom's yard to get it ready for spring. As you know, this spring has been wet and cold. While I enjoy a walk in the rain as much as the next person, enough is enough. But the cool weather has meant long lasting spring flowers, and about that, I shan't complain.

After my day of toil, I helped myself to some flowers from her cutting garden (actually, it is along the side of her house where the blooms wouldn't be enjoyed anyway) and I had such a mitt full I didn't even need florist tape. Voila! Enjoy.

And, when I got home, I discovered that IronMan spoiled me further.

I know I am one lucky boy because I woke up to a house full of the scent of hyacinth and lily. Off to enjoy another fine spring day. I hope you do too!

Is it just me?

2011-05-07T18:39:00.001-07:00

Maybe it's all the zombie shows and books I have been into lately. It could also be the Kennedy mini-series that is getting so much buzz. But quickly, at first glance, does this label from Peter Lehmann's Barossa Blonde wine, not look like the woman suffered the same fate as JFK that fateful day in Dallas? Come on. Is it just me?

Everything But Planes, Trains &.....

2011-05-02T14:47:00.000-07:00

You know those days where, at some point, you say to yourself “I should have stayed in bed”? Monday, May 2nd was one of those days for me.

I don’t want to say the day started out on a ‘good’ note per se, as it was news that Osama Bin Laden was dead. Even with fuzzy morning head I pictured President Obama on some evening talk show making a Bette Davis-esque remark when asked about it. “My mother always told me to say good things about the dead. Osama Bin Laden is dead. Good.” Cue the applause.

I agree the world is better off without him, but isn’t dancing in the streets about it a bit like poking a sleeping, unleashed pit bull with a sharp stick? Time will tell. It did make me feel safer that I continue to cycle to work. I suppose I could be the target of a terrorist attack, but I don’t think I’m that important.

Even though it was raining today, sporting my new yellow rain slicker I hopped on Molly and headed east. I have had flat tires before, but more often than not, I can either walk home or to MEC for a repair. Today however, I found myself about halfway to work when there was a loud pop and then about 2 seconds of ‘pshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh’.

Did I keep going or turn back? I started to walk towards the city but then started counting the markers I still had to pass. Three parking lots, the Argonaut rowing club, Ontario place, the TipTop building. There were just as many between me and home so I took refuge in one of the picnic shelters along the lake.

‘It can always be worse’ is a game I play when something attempts to throw me off kilter. I could have been hit by a car. I was once. On my bike. Actually, I was knocked down and run over by a cement truck, poked the peddle right through my calf muscle. Tore it in two even.

Or, it could be tomorrow, the day I am chairing a big meeting at work. Or maybe Toronto was overtaken by a Walking Dead type virus and this was a sign to stay away.

Flipping open my laptop I was pleased to see the “wireless signal detected” message flash across the bottom of the screen. There could be worse things than working in the great outdoors, albeit covered, for the day. Alas, you needed a pass code to gain access and I didn’t have my VPN token handy.

Walking home was not on the top of my ‘oh what fun’ list, at least not pushing Molly and her two panniers of cargo. Bravely or foolishly, I locked her to a picnic table and headed back over the Humber River bridge. I figured a short walk to the streetcar wouldn’t be too bad.

There I stood; bright yellow jacket, black tights with grey shorts over top, bike shoes and a lovely quaff. The looks I got rather surprised me, given the spitting, cursing, “I need to get laid” fellow I had encountered only a few weeks ago. I was warm and someplace dry and that was enough for me.

Once home, I put down Liza’s back seat, backed out of the garage and headed the direction from which I had just come praying none too silently that my bike would still be there. It was raining, windy and cold. Surely there would not be any sneaky bike thieves about. As it turns out, there weren’t.

In my haste, the only thing I changed was my footwear. Much to the amusement of a couple walking their dog, I had added a pair of jumbo, camouflaged rubber boots that I use for hunting. Warm, easy to get on and they were close at hand.

Showered, looking and feeling better, I settled down to work. Apres my toil, I went to gears bike shop for a tire repair. No problem. No line. $9 for labour, $6 for the tube. Sold.

It was then suggested that I also replace the rim tape. Not knowing what that was but that it cost $5, I said sure. I then purchased a small plastic tool for $3.95 that one needs to replace a tube. Inspired by Kitkat’s recent blog post and the fact that IronMan is working this weekend, I am going to figure this out so next time I can fend for myself. One needs to be able to make a hasty retreat from approaching zombies after all.

Then the other shoe fell. The tire itself also needed to be replaced and that one hurt. $88. BAM. Driving home, I continued to play the game in an effort to find the silver lining. Walking into the kitchen I say the last piece of Bumble Crumble from the Big Apple and knew I had found it.

Trouty Mouth

2011-04-30T15:15:00.000-07:00

I can't explain my attachment to this anymore than I can the one to the two fellas on the cello's...but it is damn good. And better put a smile on your face or else!

False Idols

2011-04-22T07:12:00.001-07:00

The only Coco Chanel thing I have ever owned was a pair of sunglasses. They now rest on the bottom of Lake Ontario after leaning over the railing of a boat trying to find a cell phone signal (another reason I loath those damn mobiles). I was always indifferent about the brand until I saw Coco Avant Chanel and because of my affection for Audrey Tautou took up the Chanel banner.

Kitkat put an end to that by blogging about her, Coco not Audrey, sketchy business dealings during the war and attempts to get her business back from her partners.

Then he set his sights on Julia Child, another celebrity I took a liking too. Even as a child, I enjoyed her cooking show although by today’s standards I suppose it wasn’t as glitzy nor glamorous. To summarize though, she didn’t like the gays (despite her husband – I mean really, come on now) and even had the habit of firing anyone she found out had those tendencies.

I like to think it was her generation or things were different back then; who knows? Either way, her star may be slightly duller due to Kitkat’s expose, however she still shines bright in my eyes. The woman had fantastic recipes and I love food, what can I say?

And now, through no fault of my friend’s, I have found out my dear Mrs. Beeton may not have been all she was cracked up to be. Again, good food, so she still gets a pass, but in my eye she has been striped of her domestic goddess status.

As the English middle class found itself awash in spices it could afford, after being the domain of the upper classes for so terribly long, she steered her readers away from them all with the possible exception of salt. And that was for the purposes of preserving mainly. Even pepper, according to her, was not good for you.

Garlic was ‘offensive’, potatoes were ‘suspect’ and cheese was to be consumed only in ‘very small quantities’.

On the SAME page in her Household Management book, she complains about the dangerous failings of the tomato and then provides a recipe for stewed tomatoes labeled a “delicious accompaniment”.

What she didn’t do in carelessness and haste, she plagiarized and took credit for recipes sent in by readers. And for all her talk about servants she only had four and she thought ‘when a lady of fashion chooses her footman without any other consideration than his height, shape and tournure of his calf’ they shouldn’t be surprised to find they didn’t have attachment to the family. Yeah, but at least they were handsome!

Still, anyone who thinks a ‘small dinner party for six’ should include mock turtle soup; fillets of turbots in cream; fried sole with anchovy sauce; rabbits; veal; stewed rump of beef; roasted fowls; boiled ham; a platter of roasted pigeons or larks; and, to finish, rhubarb tartlets, meringues, clear jelly, cream, rice pudding and soufflé, can’t be all bad in my book.

While finding all this out, thanks to a suggested reading from Auntie Karen and trip to the library, I also learn the following interesting facts:

· The term room and board comes from the fact that in pre-dining room days, a board that hung on a wall at all other hours, was laid across the laps of diners at meal time.

· Many original bathrooms were communal in nature and toilets had multiple seats for ease of conversation. I love my family, but really, sitting next to my brother while he flips through the sports section? I think I’ll pass.

· And speaking of food, I refer to Julia and Mrs. B. here not the multi seat commode. Various reports from the 1600s indicate dodgy retailers stretching their foodstuffs in interesting ways. Sugar was cut with everything from plaster of paris, gypsum and sand. Butter was pumped up with tallow and lard while a cup of tea, cutting right quick to my heart, might find a person taking in anything from sawdust to powdered sheep’s dung.

· As the Victorian era progressed, the distance between master and servant grew massively. It was in this time a rear staircase became fashionable so that, for example, ‘the gentry walking upstairs no longer met their last night’s faeces coming down’.

· That the first telephones did not have a ringer. Thomas Watson, who worked for Bell, added it long after phone was already in wide spread use. Before that, the only way to know if someone trying to get through to you was pick the phone up from time to time and check.

· Brass beds did not become fashionable because they were suddenly thought stylish, but rather that they gave no harbor to bedbugs.

While Julia and Mrs. Beeton have taken a bit of a beating on the ol’ idol scale, I did learn a few interesting things along the way. And, I also found two possible replacements.

First, George Eastman, of the Kodak family, had gobs of money and had more servants than he could shake a stick at. He kept a second, private kitchen on the second floor of his house where ‘he liked to go and put on an apron and bake pies’.

Then there is Mrs. E. T. Stotesbury, aka Queen Eva, who once spent half a million dollars ‘taking a party of friends on a hunting trip simply to kill enough alligators to make a set of suitcases and hatboxes’. How devine.

I will now turn things over to Kitkat to investigate and validate my new found favourites before I set up more alters.

Well, we made it.....

2011-04-21T19:31:00.000-07:00

Not sure how, but after this:

1 oz light rum
1 oz gold rum
1 oz dark rum
1/2 oz apricot brandy
1 oz creme de banana
1 oz pineapple juice
1 oz fresh lemon juice
1 oz fresh lime juice
1/4 oz grenadine
1 tbsp brown sugar
1/2 oz 151 proof demerara rum
pineapple wedge
lime wheel
fresh mint sprig
green orchid
maraschino cherry

Kitkat and I still managed to watch the last two episodes of our new favourite show. To be honest, I did not have the edible orchid or the 151 proof rum (where does one get such things?) so I put in a splash of blue curacao. While it did not negatively impact the taste, it did make the drink look like the inside of an abandoned fish tank.

Still, it went down so smoothly we soon found ourselves whipping up a second batch for the last episode and THEN became well aware of why they call it a zombie and the importance of that brown sugar. My goodness.

At some point during the evening I believe I proposed a Julie and Julia-esque endeavor where rather than work through a cookbook in one year, I would work through the 1000 cocktails in the ultimate bar book.

I did the math and that works out to alternating between 3 drinks and 2 drinks per day for a year. Kitkat thinks it a smashing idea but even my liver is all a quiver. I will have to peruse the entries first and if I can count those already consumed over the course of my life, I might give it a go.

Mind you, it would be a rather short list.

Zombie vs. Zombie

2011-04-19T09:15:00.000-07:00

I need to write this now as I fear I will not be able to tomorrow or will, in hindsight, not think the following idea as brilliant as I do now.

For my birthday, Kitkat, via the gift of a DVD box set, introduced me to the most delicious new show called “The Walking Dead”. In case the title isn’t explicit enough, it is about zombies, so you will likely be into or not. I don’t think there is an ‘on the fence’ option when it comes to such genres.

But, if you like cliffhangers par excellance, non-stop action, witty one liners and the odd beau hunk thrown in for good measure, it should appeal to you; if you can get over the ever so slightly gory bits. Emphasis on the bits. And the gory for that matter.

Tragically, season 1 only has 6 episodes and I have amazingly been able to resist watching them back-to-back. One, two and three were viewed in one sitting and actually, but not surprisingly, kept me up at night. Not due to the fear factor, although I did barricade my door that night, but one nagging question would not let me sleep.

I won’t spoil it for you, but my question, which will make sense if you watch, is this ~ why didn’t he checked to see if there was gas in the tank? And I mean tank in the army, big gun, bang bang sense not as in the gas tank of your motorcar.

Episodes five and six are all that remain (don’t even get me started on four, absolute delectable carnage) so Kitkat suggested we watch them while indulging in zombie cocktails. My contribution will be risotto shaped to look like brains. What could possibly go wrong?

I had heard of the Zombie cocktail but did not know it was made of fruit juices, liqueurs, and various rums, so named for its perceived effects upon the drinker.

Invented by Donn Beach who concocted it one afternoon for a friend who had dropped by his restaurant before flying to San Francisco (I want to know if he was the pilot). The friend left after having consumed three of them. He returned several days later to complain that he had been turned into a zombie for his entire trip. Its smooth, fruity taste works to conceal its extremely high alcoholic content and that restaurants limit their customers to two Zombies apiece. Concealed or not, that sucker is going down.

According to the original recipe, there is the equivalent of 7.5 ounces of alcohol (my kind of drink) in a single Zombie; this is the same as drinking three and a half cocktails made with a fairly generous 2 ounces of alcohol per drink. The restaurant limit of two Zombies, therefore, would be the equivalent of 7 regular cocktails such as a Manhattan or Scotch on the rocks (mmmmm, maybe not my kind of drink).

Walking dead or no, Kitkat’s payment for this little endeavor is to go and see Scream 4 with me since IronMan, along with everyone else, doesn’t have the guts. Hee hee. See what I did there?

DING! Round 7

2011-04-09T13:40:00.000-07:00

Many entries ago, I don’t know when, and I can’t remember where I first heard it, but I recall learning from a sound and solid source, that every 7 years you get a new body. Not literally of course you silly things, but that is how long it takes for every cell and molecule thingy to turn itself over.

Yesterday I found myself slipping into body number 7. Given the punishment inflicted on body #4 and the slightly more restrained excesses I subjected #5 too, I think the old girl looks rather fine.

Of course a little spackle here and fresh coat of paint there never hurt anyone. But the bones, as it were, are solid and the curb appeal is, if I may, given that it is MY birthday, above average.

I did get a little staged today thanks to IronMan who, after taking me to my new favourite French restaurant, Batifole (getting me wickedly intoxicated on Ricard) pampered this princess a little.

First, we went off to Truefitt and Hill for a haircut and hot shave. Now, I like to think I am little fussy when it comes to shaving. I have my badger brush and shaving soap and like to soften the skin a little with a hot towel. But this was amazing! I need to get one of the Truefitt chairs (and Peter to come over every 3 days) so I can lie flat while my man servant repeatedly applies hot towels, ointments, creams and lotions to my face before shaving me not twice, but thrice. Even now I can’t find a rough patch and my man Peter says it should be good for at least 2 days! Snap. I am definitely doing that again for CJs wedding next summer.

Post shave, and with post haste, we booted over to the King Edward hotel for a massage. For all the good my cycling has done my thighs and buttocks, it has left them riddled with knots. My shoulders were not much better for being hunched over handle bars and a desk for the majority of the day. Mark worked away at them for 90 minutes though, and aside from the odd squeak from me, I left feeling much better.

My concern with this new body, keeping with the home theme, is the shingles. I fear the genes of MB and Graham Cosby are starting to take root. Or is it lose their roots? I noticed a few thin spots on top in a couple of pictures from our Kilimanjaro trip. I would like to think that is doesn’t bother me, but there is a little streak of vanity in all of us and my streak is just a stitch larger than most I suppose.

It just isn’t far that I have more hair growing on my back now that I do my head. I exaggerate of course, but why can’t these new growths get together and move north? Whenever I ask myself that, all I hear is my grade 9 business teacher, Mr. Boron saying “life isn’t fair” when you said “but that isn’t fair” when he gave you a bad grade.

Kitkat threatens that he is going to get restylane injections when the time comes and although I have not yet been driven to a hair replacement therapy place, but I do take notice when their ads are on the radio.

Up From The Depth, 20 Stories High....

2011-04-03T16:21:00.000-07:00

In case you’re wondering what that is a picture of, it is Mothra, the one of Godzilla fame and fortune.

Long ago I noticed a tiny hole in my A&F Happy Camper t-shirt. Without question, and with ample evidence in photos going back a few years, one of my favourites. As it was just about the belt buckle area, I thought it had just had its day and chalked it up to wear and tear.

Over the course of the last year, I have found similar holes in two other t-shirts. One as old as Happy Camper (now a painting shirt) but the other’s relatively new. I suspected moths, but as the shirts are cotton and none of my wool sweaters were harmed, I thought nothing more of it.

Finding yet another hole just last week, I showed it to Fauntleroy and Kitkat who both pointed the finger of blame at tithraustes noctiluces. Suspicions ‘confirmed’ I swung into action. It must be said that I wasn’t in panic mode. I thought, in over a year I have found 3 holes so I didn’t think there was on infestation. And as all the shirts came from the same shelf, I figured it (or they) were quite lazy moths as they didn’t even move one shelf up to the wool.

Turning to my good friend Google, I researched how one gets rid of these little pests (even if you don’t have them but merely suspect) without chemicals. There were several ‘non-mothball’ options.

Most frequent were cedar blocks/oil and lavender sachets and/or oil. These seemed targeted at ‘how to keep them away’ and not so much about getting rid of them. I didn’t see the point in having them move house and perhaps onto greener pastures. I would save these for post extermination.

To get rid of them, there were suggestions of vinegar, sealing everything in plastic bags and freezing for 3 days, washing and drying everything with hot water and high heat, vacuuming every nook and cranny in your closet and steam cleaning the carpet.

Not being able to decide on the ‘best’ method, I did them all. First, everything went in the dryer for a tumble and then right into a jumbo Ziploc bag. Not having a chest freezer and not wanting to take a month for this little project, the bags then went into the garage. I for one was happy with winter’s reluctance to release its grasp this year.

Most options suggested freezing for 3 or 4 days so I settled on a week. My closet in the meantime was thoroughly vacuumed and the walls washed down with vinegar. And I didn’t dilute it with water either. Go hard or go home I say.

I then filled several small ramekins with vinegar and set one on each shelf. And just to be safe, I also spread some mothballs around. Okay, an entire box. A little overboard perhaps but cheaper than replacing an entire closet full of clothing. The door was shut, packing tape sealed.

A week later I Howard Cartered my way in and quickly had to retreat due to the fumes. Mothballs not such a good idea. Surgical mask on, I went back in with the central vac for one more sweep and then set a fan in the closet to let it air out.

Everything then came out of the Ziploc, went back in the dryer for one more tumble before being ironed and folded using my GAP folding board. Once sorted and stacked according to colour, shirts and sweaters were set back in place.

Moths or not, this little exercise set me in spring cleaning mode and soon all my dressers were emptied of their contents, vacuumed and polished. I also managed to enforce my “if I haven’t worn it in a year, out it goes” rule. I usually circumvent this by wearing it once before putting it back promising myself, “next year, for sure”.

Two sweaters, a pair of pants, 3 t-shirts, 2 ties and a jacket are now washed, folded and ready for the Goodwill. I hope I no longer have moths, but I sure do have one of the cleanest closets. If a little on the pungent side.

That Would Make a Nice Hat

2011-03-25T08:23:00.000-07:00

As Fauntleroy pointed out at our usual Thursday night soirée, I have yet to write about our Tanzanian safari. After our time on the mountain we spent a relatively relaxing 4 days spying on, for the most part, majestic animals in various national parks around the country.

Indeed there were lions, but no tigers or bears, but in lieu of them, oh my, we saw cheetah, elephants, rhinoceros, a silva (silba?) cat, hippopotamus, ostrich, giraffe, monkeys, gazelles, water buffalo, zebra, hyena (ugly little things), jackals, numerous birds (I can’t name one except for vultures) and just about everything else Noah loaded on the Ark.

Without question, my favourite picture is the one of the giraffe with the umbrella acacia tree in the background. Shade from those trees looked so inviting that I just wanted to crawl under and take a nap. Fear of waking up missing a limb or appendage kept me firmly in my seat.

The animal I was most impressed with was the black rhino. Not that they ever got very close, but that we saw 14 of them in one day where most people are lucky to see one. Sad to think that the poor things are on their last legs because people want their horns for who knows what. Ditto for the elephants but there seems to be an abundance of them. And yes, I know, its tusks not horns, but the end result is still the same. A close second were the two cheetahs we saw stalking a gazelle. They gave it the old college try, but move as they may, lunch made a clean getaway and so did their blue ribbon for 'Most Impressive'. We wanted blood and carnage, but that prize went to 47 vultures feasting on some poor carcass. There were so many of them, and the smell so wretched, we didn't stick around to make out what it was they were devouring.

Biggest giggle award, and it doesn’t take much I know, were the monkey’s with the, literally, blue balls. It made me think back to Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom with Marlin Perkins saying animal ‘x’ has a plume, main, colour etc in order to attract a mate. I get the banging on the chest and chasing away the competition to establish your dominance. And the bright colour thing, sure, who doesn’t want to look at something pretty when your surroundings are all dry and beige. But robin’s egg blue balls?

And how many times do the females fall for that? “Oh hey, Betty, look at what Charlie has over there. Let’s go check it out.”

Animals aside, the lodges we stayed in were a delight after the tents on the mountain. The most interesting feature in the first Sopa Lodge, was that at night you had to have a security guard escort you to your little bungalow after sunset. Apparently, lions and leopards like to use the pool under the cover of darkness.

The Ngorongoro Serena Lodge, perched on the edge of the crater that bares the same name, was everyone’s top pick. The lack of an infinity pool was made up in spades by the view! After a day in the crater, add Ricard and a spectacular sunset to the lounge, and you have an experience you won’t soon forget.

Kilimanjaro Music

2011-03-20T16:05:00.000-07:00

Having done it once, I am now an expert on climbing Kilimanjaro. Or so I like to think. If you are thinking about attempting it, as everyone suggest, you best prepare by hiking as much as you can and I also suggest you try a couple outings on your own. If you have seen 127 Hours, you of course will tell people where you have gone and when you will be back, but try it none-the-less.

Regardless of how many people are in your group, after several hours of walking, the small talk dries up and those annoying people in penguin suits (no joking) who were full of spunk at the start of the day will soon fall silent.

I did not have an iPod to entertain myself, and those in the group who did either ran the batteries dead or tired of having those buds tucked in their ears for hours on end. Step after step, especially on summit day, your mind wanders to all sorts of strange and wonderful places.

A couple meditation techniques I learned on Holy Island came in handy, but I usually ended up tripping over a rock, root or some other lumpy thing.

CJ and I have an uncanny ability to memorize and recite entire movies at will and that came in handy until all I could see on every ridge was Belloq from Indiana Jones saying “we are all very comfortable up here” leaving me to perish with the snakes. Bastard.

The majority of time however, a lyric would pop into my head and I would hum along blissfully singing to myself. Anyone who knows me knows I can’t carry a tune in a bucket so having a windswept mountain to keep things out of others ears was most beneficial. Of course the lyrics changed according to where we were and what we were doing.

For example, when I was feeling rather smug about having my camelbak while others fiddled with their nalgene bottles, Gwen Stefani popped into my head:

A few times I've been down this trail
And my legs are just about to fail
But I got my camelbak girl,
I got my camelbak girl

This next one, I acknowledge is wickedly rotten of me, given the fact that without our porters I would have no place to sleep and nothing to eat. However, in a place where turning your clothes inside-out counts as doing laundry AND you only have one set of clothing for six days people start to smell. Whenever I heard someone yell “porter on the left” (for they were ALWAYS running effortlessly by us – both up and down hill) I knew it was time to hold my breath and hum a little Rufus Wainwright (for those of you who took long summer road trips as children sans air conditioning, you know the smell from those backwater gas stations):

Gasoline and sawdust smells
these are not a couple of my cravings
everything here smells a little bit stronger
a little bit thicker a little bit harmful for me

And what kind of queen would I be without a little Madge?

I’m going through the wilderness
Not sure I’ll make it through
If the guide leaves I will be so lost
And be in big do-do
My heart beat is incomplete
It needs oxygen as it’s turning blue
Sitting down will make me feel
Yeah, it would make me feel
Shiny and new

And Papi of course would be infinitely angry if I didn’t give props to our Fab 5 from Britain. Word to the Spice Girls:
Too Much hiking is bad enough,
My feet are sore,
my legs are fagged and I have to wonder,

Too Much of this hill is just as tough,
I need to know the way down or I might fall asunder.

If you are after any of these gems, they will be incorporated into next weeks episode of Glee and then be available on iTunes.

The Best and Worst

2011-03-18T09:14:00.000-07:00

Well, as you already know, mission accomplished! Kilimanjaro is now officially off the bucket list. It was never actually on MY bucket list to begin with, rather my sister's, IronGirl.

Back in Canada, everyone is asking how it went, was it beautiful and the like. Great sense of achievement, without a doubt. If I had seen one person turn around and give up, I would have been right behind them. But I wasn't going to be first, not me, I was not going to be 'that' guy. IronMan says he would not have let me quit, but if starting rolling down that hill, there is not much he could have done to stop me. Would I do it again? No way. I would not wish how I felt physically on my worst enemy. If one of the guides had not carried my pack, there is not way I would have made it.

I think though, it is a little like childbirth. Or so I've heard. At the time it is hell, but the memories of pain and suffering fade fast and you start to think, well, maybe I would do it again. But I am not there yet.

So what was the best part, aside from actually getting to the summit? On our third night, we were so far up Kilimanjaro, that we slept above the clouds and had a thunderstorm below us that we could watch from our camp. I've seen that sort of thing while in a plane before, but it was stunning to see it with both feet on the ground.

We also walked in the clouds. That was pretty amazing. Not like cotton balls at all really. Just thick, soupy fog.

The best advice I had, and am very glad I took, was wearing a thong. The guide book suggested three pairs of underpants for the trip and then turning them inside out to make up enough for the 6 days. Same went for t-shirts. Apparently turning your clothing inside-out makes it clean?

I went for 6 cheap thongs that you just pitched at the end of each day. They took up less space, weighed less and were remarkably comfortable.

The worst piece of advice, and thankfully I ignored it, was not to take a camel back. I had one and it was the best piece of equipment ever! I also had nalgene bottles and a collapsible one, but that camel back was worth it's weight in gold!

As for the worst experiences, aside from puking on myself after we passed the Stella ridge, both were sleep related. First, there is not one piece of flat ground any place on that mountain. Every night was like sleeping on a listing ship. 5 or 6 times a night you had to inchworm your way back to the top of your sleeping pad just to wake 30 minutes later with your feet sticking out the tent flap.

Second, was my sister and her snoring prowess. And I am not alone here, it was the topic of conversation every morning. That girl has a gift just like her father. It was a nightmare for the rest of us, but at least she slept soundly.

There are more stories to come, but first day back, just sharing the highlights!

Kili Conquered!

2011-03-12T23:06:00.000-08:00

Just a quick note to say we ALL did it!

I can verify, from first hand experience, that altitude sickness sucks! I puked, IronGirl had "intestinal" problems and Strongarm lost her sight! No joking. It was back within a couple days, but still, no vision. And that happened while she was climbing and she kept going!

More details will follow, but off to Poland first.

Things I Will Miss

2011-02-26T06:00:00.000-08:00

I will state upfront, that yes, family and friends top the list of "things I will miss". But as they are people and not things, they are not included.

It's a bit like getting ready for Christmas this preparation for climbing Kilimanjaro. There are lists to be made, they must be checked twice. Then, similar to wrapping, you have the packing and you need to make sure your kitchen is in order. You wouldn't want to come home to things growing in your refrigerator. It's kind of the reverse order though as your fridge is Grinch bare as opposed to so full you use the coldest part of your garage for overflow.

Over the last couple of days, I have removed a few select items from my luggage and decided there is no point in even attempting to pack others. Thought about it, yes, but they are too impractical. I suppose I will enjoy them all the more when I get home.

My sonicare toothbrush and my tongue scraper. This may seem somewhat shallow on the surface, but since using this one-two combo, my days of bleeding gums are a thing of the past.

My new California King duvet. The old one was fine, but I always found the cover too large for the stuffing so it was always sliding around. This new one though, I LOVE! It fits perfectly and is like sleeping under a layer of sponge cake. Not that I have ever actually been under a layer of sponge cake, but it is 5 inches thick and toasty as can be. I am sure my camping pad and sleeping bag will be just as nice.

Yoga - I will TRY to do some while away. That didn't work out so well in France and was only two weeks. I did go yesterday for a good pre-climb stretch. And yes, I know you can't 'pack' yoga, but I did take out my folding mat that was supposed to inspire me. Maybe the mountain will do that.

My lemon press. Every morning my kidneys get a flush of lemon water. If lemons are on hand I will still attempt ~ and it might help mask the taste of those awful purification tablets.

Work. Ha! So kidding.

Apparently you can get Internet on Kilimanjaro, so I might do a quick photo post from the top. If not, see you in three weeks.

Panic Packing

2011-02-23T19:16:00.000-08:00

The accompanying photo is a sample of what one needs to pack for climbing Kilimanjaro. Among the items that I would not normally take on vacation, unless it was a camping one, include a winter temperature grade sleeping bag, hiking poles & boots, 3 nalgene bottles, a poncho, sock and glove liners, a headlamp with extra batteries and a duffel bag “for porters to carry your equipment”.

While I love the idea of having staff (they’re mine for 7 days!) I usually travel somewhat lighter. And, having a flare for organization, I started to get together the more unique items months ago and placing things in the appropriate jumbo Ziploc bags to keep them dry and separate. Tops in one, bottoms in another, equipment, imperative for the plane, day pack etc.

The duffel bag I have was full but not stuffed UNTIL today, when I read at the very bottom of the page that “this gear list of required items is needed for your climb” – uh-oh. I thought that was for the trip!

Panic mode, I didn’t pack for a four day safari and a week stop-over in Poland en route home. That last part I had somewhat thought of but then realized I wouldn’t likely want to re-wear things I had been in for four days climbing a mountain. Luckily I had space and time to apply my ‘one item out of the luggage each day for a week before travel’ rule. I will have to up my game to 3 items as day, but am confident I can.

Not on the ‘essential for the climb’ list, but deemed indispensible by moi, and now in the duffel, are the following items:
• My badger shaving brush from France and a block of shaving soap.
• Clinique’s 3-Step beauty regime (if I can follow it next to an elephant dung invested river in Thailand, I can do it on a mountain)
• A tin of loose leaf tea.
• Faux fur lined crocs (recommended by a friend for night trips to the lieu)
• One tube of HBC ginger cookies (to go with the tea)
• A bottle of Hendricks Gin to celebrate with when we get back down.

Items that even I think are too extraneous (but am sorely tempted to take):
• My personal trimmer – no manscaping for 3 entire weeks! I will be a rough, hairy beast by the time I get back.
• ………….

Not much a list, but that’s about it.

I hate myself.

2011-02-22T14:52:00.001-08:00

I blame my nephew for my addiction to this foolishness. For the life of me, I can't figure out why I can't get enough of this song! And the one guy looks, whether by design or not I don't know, like Robert Pattinson. I hope they let me back into camp Jacob when the next Twilight movie comes out.

Some of the comments that follow the video on youtube are quite disturbing. For example, "Michael Jackson rose from the grave to dance when he heard this and can now rest in peace". Hmmmm. Really?

I think if he rose from the grave he would be heading to the nearest Toys 'R Us or Chucky Cheese. Oh, did I say that out loud?

So that's what it is supposed to taste like....

2011-02-21T19:14:00.001-08:00

Kitkat puts me to shame on a daily basis. Without fail, he manages to post to his blog, sometimes, more than once. As I will soon be climbing up the side of Kilimanjaro, I will be taking an even longer than usual break from blogging. So this is ‘Countdown to Kilimanjaro’ week ~ and I will post something every day.

9:56 PM on the Monday is not a very auspicious start to be sure, and this has nothing to do with climbing or mountains. Rather, it is about food, something I hear I will be challenged in finding much that is truly appetizing.

Recently, I tried two new recipes. One, polenta, as it was called for in a recipe and the other, Yorkshire pudding, just for the heck of it.

My first attempt at polenta was less than successful. Kitkat and Fauntleroy have played guinea pig for me more than once, with about a 99% success rate. There were some unfortunate grilled plantains, an undercooked pork loin and now polenta that looked liked mashed potatoes and didn’t taste near as good.

I followed The Joy of Cooking recipe to the letter and I guess it turned out as it was supposed to. Surely it must taste better than that as I have seen it in stores and on menus. If it tasted like that, who would eat it? I was determined to try it again, and at the suggestion of epicurious, substituted half of the water with chicken stock and added ¼ c. of grated parmesan cheese.

And rather than serve it right out of the pan, I made a loaf with it and then sliced it before serving. Under boeuf bourguignon it was tasty indeed.

As for the Yorkshire pudding, I am kicking myself for not making this sooner. So easy, so much butter and so good!

Rather than a loaf pan though, I opted for a large muffin pan. It makes all the difference in the world to heat the pan in the oven first, place your drippings (or butter) in the bottom and then pour in the batter.

If you happen to have any leftover next morning, a quick reheat, more butter a dollop of jam and you have a pseudo popover to be proud of.

I don’t expect to find afternoon tea waiting for me at the summit, well, actually I do, but I’m not holding my breath. I will be taking a couple comforts from home though ~ loose leaf tea, a pot of clotted cream and some nice chocolate. Just in case, I want to have something tasty for a last meal.

That is one red rocket I won't ride.

2011-02-03T10:29:00.000-08:00

Toronto’s big storm yesterday forced me off my bike and onto public transit. Cabernet commented on the weekend that I am high maintenance, a statement I disagree with, it all depends on your definition of high maintenance, but alas, I am not made for public transport. To quote Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles “I loath the bus”. Or in my case, the streetcar.

I am sure there are weather delays, cars blocking the tracks, red lights and the like, but how is it that EIGHT trams go west, the last six near empty, before one heads east? Surely there is a better planning system. Ideally, I would have my own private railway car like the railroad barons of yesteryear, but even I concede that is not feasible. Where would I park it?

As there was ample time, I was privy to some conversations going on around me. Two young boys, who only go a couple blocks to school I presume, were chatting and one leaned out into the street (why people do that I will never know, it won’t make it come any faster. If that worked, I would lean over the lotto terminal a lot more) to look for the streetcar.

Stepping back onto the curb, he said to his friend “the TTC is just not what it used to be”. Uh, hello? You are maybe in the 5th grade? How long have you been using transit exactly? Made me smile to hear such an adult comment from such a wee young lad.

That was to be the last smile of the trip. Etobicoke is far flung enough that even with delays, you can usually get a seat. I managed to score a single so as not have to worry about an unsavoury mate. Next to me or not, the trip turned out to be less than pleasant.

Just after the Humber loop, a male person boarded the street car and moving from front to back, without really pausing, asked everyone for $2. I assume he was unsuccessful as the forward motion sent him to the back quite quickly. There, he found what I can only assume, was an unwilling partner in conversation.

“Man! A dude needs to get laid more. You know? I mean really get laid. Been too long man. Too long. For real.” Granted, he did not descend to the use of lewd language. Every minute or so though, his emphatic plea for companionship was interrupted by his spitting on the floor.

And not just a ‘usual’ sort of spit, but the throat clearing, nose sucking kind. My coddled eggs and toast almost came up in my lap.

“Yup. Going to get laid. That’s what I am going to do” he said as he pulled to cord and made a hasty exit. I don’t know exactly where he was going, but that is one lucky lady.

Monkey Boy Wants a New Monkey

2011-02-02T14:36:00.000-08:00

Especially the "Theft Retrieval System"

If It's Good Enough For Haggis....

2011-01-23T17:33:00.000-08:00

We are just back from another preparatory hike for our excursion to Kilimanjaro at the end of February. It was fine practice indeed. While we lacked the altitude, we had wind and snow in spades. Out of the wind, it was -16, and with the chill factor, -26! Brrrr. Even still, about 5 minutes in, most of us found ourselves peeling off layers as we were too warm!

Happily I did not have the slightest trace of a hangover despite having attended a Robbie Burns dinner, complete with scotch tasting, the night before. Fauntleroy suggested our first out of home Burns supper and settled on The Old Mill. The setting was fitting, replete with real wood fires burning in hearths scattered about the ‘mill’.

Before heading out, we met for a drink at our ‘hosts’. As we were a party of six, we wondered what four strangers would round out our table. Fauntleroy joked it would be a gang of old Presbyterians that would be mortified at dining with assorted homosexuals. I said we could all just play it straight and say that CJ was a woman of low moral standards instead and we were all dating her.

Upon arrival, we received a scotch ‘passport’ and were told if we sampled all six on hand, we could enter a draw for a free bottle. “You had me at scotch” I said to the wee lass at the door.

As we admired our surroundings, massive stone fireplace, gorgeous parquet flooring and fabric walls, a fiddler made her way by playing a tune titled ‘Stop Ye’re Tickling Jock’. Rather! Can’t you get a special shampoo for that these days? We moved to our first sample giggling.

Something in one of the first two did not agree with me and even in the dimly lit room (which I appreciate all the more as I get older) everyone commented on my red glow. I must have had a mild allergic reaction as my face and ears were quite flushed. Best cure for that is something medicinal thought I, so we moved on to the next station. By the end of the evening, my normal colour had returned but I am a little leery of overly peaty scotches now. Too bad.

From there, it was pretty much down hill. Address to the ladies, and response to the gents aside, Fauntleroy was not impressed. Given his vast experience and heritage, I too expected better things. The final straw for both he and CJ was the non-existent dancing.

You drank, you ate (while people sang so loud you couldn’t talk to one another) listened to some speeches and then got the hell out. The 48th Highlanders were fantastic (if a little loud in a relatively confined space ~ those bags are best heard across a loch I think) and brought in the haggis.

A lot of people turn up, not turnip that comes with it, their noses at haggis. Really, it tastes like oatmeal with some sausage meat in it. But even oatmeal can be bad, and so this was. Wallpaper paste is the only descriptive that comes to mind.

I did, however, get a wonderful idea as the haggis was marched in perched atop a serving platter balanced on two poles. Not actual people from Poland you understand, but the wooden variety.

Rather than go with the two porters that come included as part of our Kilimanjaro package, could I not upgrade to 6 or 8 and have them carry me in one of those portable thrones?

Actually, maybe 9 would be better. The extra one could be like a spare tire and until called into service, could fan me with a large palm.

Bye Bye Birdy

2011-01-19T15:01:00.001-08:00

It wasn’t quite the picture I had painted in my mind, but it was still a good two days with the boys. For those of you who have seen the glory that is Gosford Park, you may recall the hunting party scene, where ducks, geese and pheasants a-plenty dot the sky and everyone more than reaches their bag limit.

Equally impressive, but completely unrelated to my tale, is the luncheon, avec bloody Mary’s, served by a house full of staff, that followed. Ahhhh, perhaps one day.

Newly minted migratory bird license in hand, my brother, cousin and various hangers-on headed out to a family farm to “fill the sky with lead”. Aside from skeet, it was my first time in a long time trying to “bring something out of the sky”. In the end, we managed two ducks, but feasted on goose and moose none the less.

It was also the first time in a long time for a weekend with “the guys” ~ and I mean straight ones. What a fascinating breed indeed. Some stereotypes stood as they always have in my mind ~ when there are no females around, the language goes in the toilet. Who knew the f-bomb could be a verb, noun and an adjective? And sometimes all three at once! I have said it before and I’ll say it again, I am no prude but gentlemen please, there is a lady present.

Other stereotypes fell by the way side. I anticipated a battery of belching and flatulence, especially once the beer (Canadian, in cans – so butch) started to flow. But no, it never materialized. The ‘C’ word was added to the repertoire, but the release of bodily gases was kept in check.

For lunch, I had unfairly feared a bag of chips and maybe a ding-dong or two. Not wanting to be ‘that guy’ I left my Martha Stewart pie basket, picnic basket and accessories at home. A thermos of tea and one of soup along with a Panini would have to do. Oh, and my new flask with a little scotch in it for a mid-morning pick me up. Don’t judge, it was cold and we were in a corn field at 7:00 AM!

As lunch approached, my eyes happily popped out of my head when my cousin dropped the tailgate of his truck to reveal a propane bbq, cooler, wine and real plates and cutlery! I know right? He had wine! Soon the was grill fired up and there were moose cutlets cooking while beef broth and beans heated on the side burner. We even had my cousin's homemade smoke goose as an appetizer. The only thing missing was a bloody Mary.

As we ate, numerous Canadian Geese and various types of ducks flew by the drive shed we were using for cover. As I continued to feast on their kinfolk, I was inspired to new heights of hunting frenzy. After lunch, Grizzly Adams placed us strategically along the riverbank and then headed downstream to flush some ducks our way.

Not sure if it was boredom, or a ‘what the heck’ shot, but my brother took a crack at a duck and spooked the ones we had seen. None-the-less, by the time my cousin made his round, he flushed two ducks right towards us. His son dropped one a la Gosford Park while the other, slightly injured, sought refuge under a rocky over hang on the other side of the river. We were not to be outdone.

One man was placed up river, one down, and one straight across. I know I know, one duck, four dudes, lame. But, it is a hunters responsibility to dispatch as quickly and humanely as possible, any injured game.

As the only one with rubber boots, I was elected to walk as far out as I could and throw rocks to flush Daffy from hiding. Me? Throw? Clearly these boys had forgotten my demonstrated throwing skills from our annual family picnics. Going back to the above mentioned stereotypes, I can no better throw a ball, base, foot or other, than I can catch one.

Conjuring up images of Scarlet O’Hara though, I said to myself, “You can throw straight, as long as you don’t have to throw too far.” I took another step forward.

Dipping my hand in the icy water, I retrieved two stones and rather than aim for the duck, I went for the large, ice covered branch above his hiding place. Amazingly I hit exactly where I wanted and ice and debris let lose. But a little ice was better than the three guns pointed at him I guess, so he stayed put.

I wanted duck a l’orange though, and my second stone did the trick. I will spare you the details, but suffice it to say, Daffy and Daisy are once again together.

Know what?

2011-01-12T15:45:00.000-08:00

Just wanted to share a couple of quick “you know what” observations with ya’ll. First, you know what hurts?

Riding your bike to work in the winter, and while your hands and feet usually get chilled, this one day, they stay nice and toasty but your junk gets REAL cold. Then, after your shower, and you’re toweling off your thigh, you smack yourself in the bag. That hurts.

Second ‘know what?', also bag related. Know what I don’t get? Coach ~ the brand. To me, coach conjures up images of those people at the ‘back of the plane’ flying coach. Everyone else gets to board first and then “our passengers flying coach” are allowed to board. Or people on the bus, taking the ‘coach’, as it were. So why do people pay hundreds of dollars for bags, purses and gloves that really say, “hey, look at me! I’m steerage quality”. I just don’t get it. Is it just me?

I hate small food.

2010-12-14T10:11:00.001-08:00

Kitkat’s culinary skills have always left me in awe. Tasty treats inside sugar bubbles not only make my teeth scream for more, but leave me as wide-eyed as a child when they get their first bottle of gin for Christmas. Kids do get excited about that don’t they?

From a pair of Fluevogs on a cake pillow to Grauman’s Chinese Theatre reproduced in sponge layers and ganache there is nothing the man can’t do while making it look easy. Martha Stewart is similarly inspiring with her “good things” that she seems to make with next to no effort.

For the most part though, I like Julia Child and her “forget about making it look like it belongs in a magazine” approach when it comes to cooking. My pies might bubble over the odd time but that just means I filled them up real good.

Occasionally however, I will forget the last time I tried my hand at something fussy like using a needle to poke all the bubbles out of an aspic before it sets or making chocolate leaves, and think, ‘sure, I can do that’. Foolishly adding as an afterthought, ‘this won’t take long’ and/or ‘it will be fun’.

Enter the world of small food, specifically, mini butter tarts. Why would I buy the ‘two bite size’ variety when I can make pastry and melt butter and sugar all on my own? Christmas carols on the iPod and rolling pin in hand I set to work. Dough and filling preparation were easy as pie. Pardon the pun. Even cutting the rounds and putting them in the mini muffin pan was doable, if a little taxing on the first few test runs.

Using the tines of a fork to make a little pattern around the top was a bit finicky, but with flour to keep it sticky free, off I went. All the recipes I read said not to fill more than a third of the tart lest it overflow during baking. In those tiny cups though, that looks downright stingy so I went to the halfway mark.

Sure enough, the cup runneth over, as it were, and out of the oven came butter tarts securely cemented into their cups. I let them cool for about an hour and ruined two trying to pry them from the sugars grasp. It was not to be and while they tasted fine, I couldn’t very well ask everyone to gather round the tray with a spoon and say “have at ‘er”.

I was thankful for the frigid weather we are having however, when out of desperation, I set them outside for a quick freeze. Once solid, I gave the pan a solid smack on my butcher block and then took a knife to flake the caramel off the pan and voila! I had freed my treats.

The crunchy bits were placed in the tarts for a little extra something and they turned out to be rather yummy. My ensuing batch of shortbread though was of the scotch variety and the gingerbread men remained royal icing free. One high maintenance endeavour as year is enough for me.

Embargo Complete, More Numbers

2010-12-07T10:56:00.000-08:00

For no other reason than ‘just because’, I imposed a jeans embargo on myself for the 30 days of November. I found denim to be my default choice for casual wear and wanted to change things up a bit. Even on official dress down days at work, I opted instead for khakis or a dandy pair of plaid slacks.

Yesterday, as I slipped on my favourite pair of A&F Baxter boot-cut low rise jeans, I noticed they were snugger than usual around the thighs and buttocks. Surely after 7 months of cycling I wasn’t getting heavier! Even though it is much easier to justifying my daily intake of tea biscuits, cake and pie, my twice daily 35 minute spin class must be burning something.

The jeans snapped up no problem-o and were quite loose on my whippet thin waist. Further investigation was required. I am normally not one to parade around the house in my gitch, total lie, do it all the time, but I had not checked out my gams for a while. The guns ~ POW POW ~ you betcha, so I trooped off to my full length mirror and I can actually say I have nice thighs and the golden globes are a little more voluptuous!

Back in the day, I used to do squats, leg presses and the like, but always had a backside as flat as a griddle and legs that looked like twigs. I guess cycling is what I should have been doing all along! I even have what they call the ‘tear drop’. Now, I’m not saying I have monstrous, vein popping slabs of beef a la Draper or Schwarzenegger, but for someone whose brother used to say “those legs are lucky, lucky they hold you up” and be quite proud of himself, I am rather pleased with the boilers.

That is what they are now called, boiler #1 and boiler #2. They are the engines that drive me to work and the name has a nautical je ne sais quoi about it. Instead of coal, they are stoked with protein and run rather smoothly, even in the wind and rain.

I am a little concerned about what will happen during their winter break, but am going to keep riding as long as I can. Working on the 19th floor might turn out to have it’s benefits ~ the boilers will be kept pumped and toned!

2010-11-25T11:02:00.001-08:00

I know I am ahead of the curve, but hoping to head off any more 2010 catastrophes by wrapping things up a little early. I believe it was in her 1997 New Year’s address that Queen Elizabeth said it was a year she “would no look back upon fondly”. 2010 has been my 1997. I don’t know if it is the 20 or the 10, or the combination of the two, but good times, it was not. Sincerest hopes that it was not the 20 or this is going to be a really bad century.

My castle was not ravaged by fire, but with the loss of two uncles, a cousin and my father, let’s just say there have been brighter years on the calendar. Optimistic is a word I would use to describe myself and I try to find the silver lining wherever I can.

It has been a chance to come closer as a family and, we hope, realize that life is short so we better make the most of it. Sorting through dad’s things, I have also stumbled across a few things that have reminded me just how wonderful it was growing up in our family.

While there have been some grumblings about his pack rat ways, the man never met a tuna can he didn’t put soil in and plant a seed, we have found some treasures amongst the ‘trash’.

He kept a reel-to-reel tape recorder that would compete with any jumbo 1980’s VCR in terms of size and a few old tapes of us as children. IronGirl got her hands on it one day after I upset her, probably not justified, and after saying my name, repeatedly stated what a f**k I was. Shocking, but good for a laugh.

We have become cautious about putting things in bins for charity as we have discovered numerous books with money stuffed between the pages. A paper peso from 1945 and a Trinidad and Tobago $1 bill from 1964~ odd since the man was never in either country?

Mother sorted through a huge box of cards that yielded a couple treasures. One year for Christmas, my brother gave my Catholic mother and Presbyterian father a Happy Hanukkah card. I guess he was distracted by the glitter covered poinsettia on the front. You'd think that would have been my excuse. Now, for those that don’t use ‘that’ word in your homes (and you know who you are), skip the next paragraph.

There was a birthday card from my grandmother. It was one of those painted by what we now call a ‘handicapable’ person. But back before being PC was expected, the inscription “Happy Birthday from the retarded people” seems to have been appropriate. Maybe not, but it was in there anyway.

My favourite item to date has been a cassette tape, recorded in the 1980’s based on the boom-box it was found in, that has my dad interviewing his father. He asked him about his life and what growing up on the farm was like. The best story, in my humble opinion, was about his uncle’s prize winning sheep.

It begins with my grandfather saying that ‘motor cars’ were just starting to appear on the roads. One day, he and his brother were given the responsibility of caring for this blue ribbon winner, but as they were bringing it out of the barn, began horsing around and the door slammed on its neck and killed it.

Not wanting to get into trouble, they knocked down a piece of fence and dragged the carcass to the street so it would like the sheep had escaped and been hit by a car. It reminded me of a certain hair gel incident that got my sister into a lot of hot water, courtesy of yours truly. Maybe that was the day she made the recording.

Multitasking

2010-11-24T12:53:00.001-08:00

You will excuse me if I offer that most sincere form of flattery to Seth and Amy and ask ~ Really? Are you serious? If you don’t know what I am referring to:

So I’ve been in a bathroom stall before doing my business and can hear people next to me clicking away on there blackberry’s, cell phones and what have you. Responding to e-mails and texts, really? I know you can wash your paws after, but how do you wash your hand held device? And I mean the electronic one. I mean really?

Chatting with a former co-worker the other day and laughing at the aforementioned etiquette, or lack thereof, she mentioned that her friend thinks nothing of chatting on the phone while sitting in the WC. And there is no hiding that either, the echo alone would give away one’s locale. I know I’m not in the room, but still, really, are you serious?

But my WTF, OMG are your serious moment was today when I found an empty yogurt container, complete with plastic spoon sticking out of it, perched atop the toilet paper roll dispenser. How hungry are you, or badly did you have to go, that you couldn’t take that extra 30 seconds to eat at your desk? Really, are you serious? I mean, doesn’t that affect the flavour?

Of course, he could have needed the yogurt's help…..like Jamie Lee Curtis:

On a wing and a prayer

2010-11-02T10:51:00.000-07:00

All I can say is thank goodness for safety pins, duct tape and fishing line. Without these three things, my last minute Halloween costume would not have been possible. If I hadn’t flip-flopped between Stefon, Cruella and where I ended up, I could have actually made the costume, but as it was, I was pressed for time.

IronMan sat patiently cutting fishing line into certain lengths while I hacksawed into a jumbo sonotube. Add some leftover cushion stuffing, drape the fabric and voila, dress complete. Creating a fake neck was my biggest challenge but after a suggestion from Kitkat and a mask from Fauntleroy, all become clear and I saved myself an elaborate fan to cover mistakes on the back.

This headless Marie Antionette, who FYI had a very long neck and was about 8 feet tall, costume, in the grand scheme of things, was on the cheaper side. The majority of fabric was leftover from my bedroom walls, the jacket re-cycled from my Scarlet O’Hara costume and the head was a pre-purchased decoration.

I spent an additional $40 on fabric and $19 on a wig. Not as cheap as Lizzy Borden, but much cheaper than Scarlet, although she has now practically paid for herself.

Head in hand, our smaller than usual group ~ two day of the dead dolls, Frankenstein & his Bride and King Tut ~ hit Church Street and let me tell you darlings, we were the hit of the evening!

I did have a Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunction however. Given the size of my costume I had to dress the Fire Hydrant's place and realised I forgot my boobs. Two zip-lock bags, a few cups of sugar, some duct tape and 3 minutes later all seemed rectified. We underestimated however the weight of sugar.

While my left chest stayed in place, the right side, ever so slowly started moving down. One adjustment must have been a little too much and I was soon leaving a sweet trail down the street in my wake. Oh well. I kept it covered with my decapitated head.

You can always judge your success by how often you are stopped on the street and I can honestly say none of us took more than 3 steps without being swarmed by the masses. It was FABULOUS! Fools that we are, we didn’t get a group shot of ourselves.

Thanks for another fabulous year! And here I was thinking I was getting too old for this.

Pay Back

2010-10-20T09:19:00.000-07:00

Well well well….it seems that karma is indeed a bitch.

Anyone who knows me knows how I love the gay high holiday of Halloween. It takes a good deal of restraint on my part to wait for Thanksgiving to be over before I start making it look like Halloween threw-up in my house.

In more recent years, I have limited myself to ONE new Halloween decoration per year AND it has to be homemade. More often then not, Martha Steward inspired. You can read all about last year’s mummy if you dig back a few posts. I will post shortly about my bird themed creation this year and might bend my ‘one only’ rule slightly after making a ghastly discovery.

Last year, shortly after having had tucked into turkey, gravy and cranberry sauce, I was packing away my autumnal decorations. The crown jewel of my collection is a wheat sheaf. Scratch that, the PERFECT wheat sheaf. I put it in the garage while I gathered a few other odds and sods and no joke, less than 10 minutes later went back to put it in its assigned Rubbermaid bin when two mice jump out and ran away.

Nasty little critters! Thankfully minimal damage was inflicted and I got a good story out it. Still payback was in order. Traps and poison were the order of the day. Less than a table spoon of peanut butter and two “thwacks” later, my two for a dollar traps finished off a couple. I like to think they were the gang leaders.

The Jim Jones canary seed took care of the rest….or so I thought. This year, as I opened one of my bins, puffs of tiny little Styrofoam balls filled my garage. My headwaiter had all his mummy wrappings torn away and good chunks of his head and cheeks were missing! I guess in addition to being good for a scream, he is also good for making a nest.

There were also mucho droppings in the bin and one of my screaming skeletons was covered in what I can only guess is mice urine. How rude. Latex gloves, borax and a sponge cleaned that up.
New bins with no holes for handles are now in place and I can only hope it was same little buggers that inflicted the damage. If not, it means I have new house guests and it is game on once again….

It's All About the Numbers

2010-09-19T17:16:00.000-07:00

It has been 3.5 months (that’s 16 weeks) since I started riding my bike to work. Each way, it is 14.8 km (according to Google maps) door – to – door. On that stretch of road / lake path, there are 23 traffic lights going and 24 coming back. On Queens Quay there is a ‘half’ light on the north side of the streetcar tracks.

During that time, I have only skipped the cycle 2 times and taken public transit ~ the $5 express. Both times were due to rain. I have still been soaked to the skin twice, both on the way home, having been caught in summer afternoon thunder showers. Quite pleasant actually as there is no one else about and it saves a shower when I get home. I jest of course. Or do I?

On my route, there are also 8562 Canadian geese. That count is, of course, subject to change as those pesky things keep moving about. Scattered about the path is a corresponding 8562 pounds of goose poop.

My advice, keep you mouth closed as you ride over those heavily soiled sections of path, your eyes too if you are not wearing glasses of some sort. It tastes just about as bad as you would imagine, especially being flung off your tire.

I save myself $13 parking everyday (if I were to drive) or $10 on transit. Come winter, I won’t have a choice, but for now, I consider that a savings. In my old job I didn’t have to pay for parking at all, but that luxury only applies in the burbs I guess. I also bought new clips and shoes at a cost of $197.56. Still, less money on gas and less wear and tear my dear Liza. I also see myself needing some warmer pants shortly.

According to the MSN calorie counter, I burn 546 calories in the 30 - 35 minutes it takes to make the trip. Good thing too, since I no longer have access to a free gym and haven’t touched a weight in 3.5 months. Thank goodness for the bike and yoga. They help me keep my whippet thin waist in tip-top shape.

I have dropped my water bottle once and done a farmers ‘nose clearing’ onto my own shoulder an equal number of times. You really need to pay attention to the wind when you do that.

The one thing I do not have an accurate count on is the number of bugs I have managed to swallow. Best guess is 10 – 15 big ones. Where you actually feel them smack into the back of your throat and there is no getting them out. One of those also resulted in the dropped water bottle.

I figure I have another 10 weeks to go but we’ll see if the constantly dropping morning temperature changes that.

Things That Make You Go Hmmmmm?

2010-09-16T13:42:00.000-07:00

I have heard, and confirmed through the Google, that airlines don’t play disaster movies as in-flight entertainment, especially those that involve planes that crash and burn. I would argue Independence Day fits that bill, but let’s not split hairs.

Assuming the same principle applies to other modes of transportation, I would guess that cruise lines don’t play Titanic or The Poseidon Adventure. That last one could be due to Ernest Borgnine running around in a wife beater rather than the disaster element. “Linda, I told you to put something on under that dress”. Classic.

So I had to raise an eyebrow this morning when I boarded the elevator at work for my trip to the 25th floor. To alleviate awkward, and more often than not boring, conversations all the lifts have a captivate.ca screen.

Weather, sports and odds and sods of news flash across the screen to entertain you for your 45 second trip. I was surprised though to see a trailer for M. Knight Shyamalan’s new movie “Devil”.

From what I can gather, an elevator gets stuck, the lights go out and the devil starts having ‘fun’ with the occupants. I have been stuck in an elevator thrice in my life (more if you count the on purpose times) that I can remember. Once the lights went out to boot. Not good times I can tell you.

For kicks, I think the captivate people should deliberately stop the elevators during the morning rush and play the second scene from the movie Speed. That’ll calm everyone right down.

A Tale of Two Cities

2010-09-06T16:05:00.000-07:00

Really, it is one city, but two different neighbourhoods. There are parallels between this tale however and that of the book. One is relatively calm and quiet while in the other you are as likely to have your head lobbed off as not. I exaggerate of course but this week I did noted a difference between the east and west ends of Toronto.

My east end story goes a little something like this; two boys were looking after a friends moose (a puppy really, but so big she has been given the aforementioned nickname). Although said animal resides in the west end, she is famous throughout the entire city. The boys were walking about with their pet-for-a-day and wanting to spoil her silly, took her to bark and fitz in the beach.

Dropping her name in the store, the lady behind the counter said, “oh is that the dog named after the bird in the movie ‘Up’? I said it was and she went on to say that she had heard all about her.

Celebrity dog in tow, we headed to Meat on the Beach (see what they did there?) to grab a little something for dinner. No dogs allowed of course, so I stood outside while IronMan fetched salmon for me and steak for himself and moose.

Meat is one of those impeccably kept and presented little stores that you pay through the nose at. Giving it its due however, I must say, fabulous. Outside they have the latest produce of the season on display in their vintage GM truck and this time of year includes concord grapes.

I was having a good time people watching and listening to the conversations of others while I should have been minding my own bees wax. I was not standing there very long, but still managed to hear someone refer to his Johnson (at least I assume that is what he was referring to given the context) as “the chief” and a mother drop the f-bomb twice as she pushed her toddler along in an over-priced pram.

What put a smile on my face though was the girl who excitedly turned to her friend while pointing at the concord’s and stated “oh, those grapes taste just like wine”. Really dip shit? What’s next, apples that taste like apple juice or oranges that taste like orange juice?

Glad that kabala string didn’t last very long….so much better to judge.

Back in the west end, others were busy with more worthwhile, though illegal, activities. While I judged the mental intellect and inane comments of others, someone was judging concrete steps on ninth street…..and mine won!

I know I should be proud and happy that my step won. Chest puffed out, free cigars and all that, but I kind of wish I had lost and kept my step.

Yes folks, someone was so desperate, and obviously in the middle of a construction project, that during the night they stole my stair! At first my neighbour and I thought each other, for some bizarre reason, had moved it. No.

Drunk punk prank? Smashed to bits in the middle of the road or made off with only to discover it’s too heavy to make it worth while? No.

Just gone. Sunday night there, Monday morning, not-so-much. Thankfully my urn and hydrangea were left in a non pillaged state (and are now chained to my post) but I have to worry about the mailman twisting his ankle.

On the plus side, it is a ‘common element’ so the condo corporation has to replace it and I finally see a positive to that $188 maintenance fee!

Double Trouble

2010-08-29T16:47:00.000-07:00

Hello dear readers, if there are any of you left out there. It has been a while but I hope you will forgive me when I say my summer sounds like a movie title, but backwards ~ 3 funerals and a wedding.

I hope that bad things, like so many others, happen in three’s and the Mitchell have paid their account in FULL for a good long while.

Hot on the heels of our latest tragedy, some good news. Another of our coven (that’s Breaking Dawn lingo for family, “go camp Jacob!”) turned 40 and CJ and her SB boyfriend treated our merry little bad to a week on Georgina Island. First, I must say, I had no idea Lake Simcoe was so HUGE.

Having now looked at a map, I see that Barrie, where Momo lives, is situated near a little bay. That being my only reference for good old LS, I didn’t realize there was more beyond the bay.

Our week was full speed relax. Two spring garage sales and a band of merry Mary’s (and Mary friendly) made sure there was enough food for two weeks. We also had two charming pooches to entertain us, mountains of books (I myself managed my way through 3 ~ David Sedaris –When you are Engulfed in Flames (mucho recommend), Breaking Dawn (go Jacob!) and The Last American Man (jury is still out. Good book, but the Eustace seems like a bit of a dill weed) and an entire lake for adventure.

There was also Trouble. I mean the game. Oh, there were other nice, family oriented games that we played sans problem. But when the Blue Girl from the doll house casually suggested a round of Trouble, it was best to turn the other way. Easier said than done of course, she would ply one with drinks, like you were her best friend.

Then WHAM-O! The Puppet Master would slide behind her Wizard of Oz mirror and ‘suggest’ what peg should be moved where, who should be sent packing and promise that if you did her ‘this one little favour’, she would be nice to you next time. She also decided if the dice had had a full ‘pop’. If not, or she didn’t like the number, she would simply pop again.

Naïve or drunk, not sure which, but we all got sucked in by her little giggle and before we knew it, were crying in our pink wine as she did her little happy dance out on the dock. In an effort to escape this relentless butchering, I had an ill conceived Magellan inspired moment and asked IronMan to canoe around the island with me.

Calm, flat waters on one side of the island would surely translate into the same all around. Without much enthusiasm or reluctance, he agreed. Much like my knowledge of Lake Simcoe, I really didn’t appreciate the size of the island. As we rounded each point, I thought, and eventually prayed to both God and Poseidon, that we surely must start heading north at some point and safety would be within our grasp.

Two or three turns in, the Gilligan’s Island theme song started repeating in my head. The weather didn’t start getting rough, but the water certainly did. Some comfort was found in being able to see the bottom, if we stayed close to shore, but that meant exposing our port side. Attacking the waves head on was a must lest we be flipped, worst case, or swamped, from the side.

I found myself looking for expansion joints in the canoe when it seemed that only bow and stern were touching water. I made an Edmund Fitzgerald reference upon our return which my brother poo-pooed. Apparently it did not split in two as I thought, it sank whole, cracking in half when it hit the bottom. He then proceeded to sing the entire Gordon Lightfoot song.

I had at least packed a Diet Coke for my man and water for myself. We stopped at one point and I asked if IronMan wanted to turn back. He said it was up to me. Near as I can figure, that was about 45 minutes in.

Surely we had to be half way and right around the next bend was the ferry dock and it was only 4 km from there. I have since discovered that Georgina has a circumference of 21 km and it takes two men 3 long hours to conquer.

About 2 hours in, we had no watch so who really knows, the bow went eerily silent. “Do you still love me baby?” Silence. “Are you having fun?” Silence. “Do you want another Diet Coke?” (not that I had one to give) Silence.

At long last, we spied the ferry and the water was calm. “This is not fun for me” I finally heard. “Just think of it as a spinning class for your arms” I tried joking. 4 more kilometres of silence. My knees were sunburnt, my two sizes too small life jacket was chaffing my right arm pit and I really needed to pee but not one word of complaint escaped my lips.

He has now told me he feared for his life but thought I must know what I was doing or surely I would have stopped. I didn’t see how that was an option. It was not a portage friendly canoe (no yolk in the middle) and I really didn’t want to turn around after about 30 minutes in the waves, I kept thinking it MUST end soon so carry on.

I did contemplate stealing a lounge chair off a dock we passed. It had wheels on the one end and I thought the canoe would rest on it perfectly and we could just pull it back along the road.

The next day I rode Fauntleroy’s bike around the island and realized that would have been a longer walk than I thought, much like the canoe trip itself. In the end, we made it safely back to dock where Blue Girl had lured two more foolish little flies into her web. She had Kitkat pitted against his new Mexican boyfriend and was smiling all the way to the Trouble finish line.

Plum cake, wine and a diva.

2010-06-18T06:34:00.001-07:00

Just thinking about last night makes me smile. This has been a rather rough week ~ both from a work perspective with 3 days (and nights) of conference and personally for my family.

But last night, all those worries melted away as I was treated to fine friends, fine food, fine wine and, if you’ll pardon my French, one freakin’ fine piece of cake. Our Thursday nights are always fun and silly and the perfect way to ease into the weekend.

Yesterday evening though, all the elements came together to create a perfect storm. But in reverse. So whatever the opposite of a perfect storm is, is what we had. You couldn’t have asked for better weather. Warm enough to sit out but cool enough to keep the mosquito count at zero. When it did get a little chilly, Fauntleroy provided us with nice woolly blankets to snuggle under.

The Winnipeg Diva was in town and as I rode my bike around back, there she was. That girl is one good hugger let me tell you. So good to see her and hear her, in the most endearing way, pick on Fauntleroy’s expressions and accent. Why say “rose coloured glasses” when one could say “rose tinted spectacles” instead? I mean really, the choice is quite clear.

We worked through a rainbow of wine ~ starting with white, then blush, then red. There was also Pimms to kick things off. With the wine came the silly banter and inevitable descent into making adolescent jokes out of just about anything. Especially after Kitkat introduced a new term? Expression? Apt description of…..? It is called a rusty trombone. I will let you Google that yourself, but be prepared. Consider yourself warned and don’t search it at work!

In addition to educating us in the ways of the world, Kitkat hosted the evening and did he ever step up to the plate. Chicken stuffed with rosemary, BBQ asparagus and zucchini and what I must say were the best stuffed potatoes I have ever had. Me likes me some food, and that boy delivered.

He set a mighty high bar with the entrée, but easily leapt over it with his dessert. Me likes me some dessert even more than a good main. My grandmother used to make a dessert called sex in a pan; cake, peaches and cream in a pan and I must say, if memory serves, it was good.

I could get rather crude and give Kitkat’s dessert an even more explicit name, but I’ll leave that to you. All I can say is that with cake, plums and passion fruit ice cream you can’t go wrong. Thanks boys and girl, that was one for the books.

Oh, and Tuscany 2012 is a go, so start planning!

Real Simple. Really.

2010-06-13T17:36:00.001-07:00

Last year, the Dollhouse Girls gave me a subscription to Real Simple magazine and tonight it proved itself worthy of its moniker. It is asparagus season, and if you like it, here is a recipe for you!

Get some fresh tortellini from your favourite house of pasta and cook it in chicken stock instead of water and don't drain. Just before it's done, toss in a bunch of asparagus (chopped in 1 inch lengths) and if your farmer's market has fresh peas, chuck in a couple good hand fulls of those too.

A splash of salt and pepper, grate a little fresh Parmesan on top and voila, you have chicken soup meets wonton soup and it is super yummy!

A Japanese Heart You Say?

2010-06-13T08:25:00.000-07:00

Many thanks to my niece, current handle ‘blackandwhitefreak’. On the way to Mexico last year we were in the airport bookstore and she encouraged me to purchase Sense and Sensibilities and Sea Monsters. She had Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and was up for a swap when we each finished.

Sensibilities took me some time to get through. Cute as it was, I must admit I did not become a Sham-Wow type advocate for it. I recently finished Our Mutual Friend and every one of the 777 pages, and each of the 40 oz. of Taylor Fladgate 2001 Port that went with it, were heaven.

With this spring’s summer like weather, I needed something a little more modern to ease the transition to gin and tonic season. As I found that Zombies was written by a different author, Seth Grahame-Smith, than Sea Monsters, I thought I would give it a whirl. If you are at all tempted by these novels, and a tummy that is not squeamish, I suggest you start here.

However, do not indulge over a goose, or perhaps any fowl, meal. You might forever be put off by the description of “Elizabeth’s eye being continually drawn to Charlotte, who hovered over her plate, using a spoon to shovel goose meat in the general direction of her mouth, with limited success. As she did, one of the sores beneath her eye burst, sending a trickle of bloody pus down her cheek and into her mouth. Apparently she found the added flavour agreeable, for it only increased the frequency of her spoonfuls” a little off-putting.

Luckily, not so vivid a description of poor Charlotte’s continued downward spiral did not put me off my tea. I did however laugh a little up my nose when Charlotte “drooled a third cup of tea into her lap. She stood to excuse herself, clutching her stomach and wearing a rather pained expression said ‘I beg ya-oar pahdun, ya-oar wadyship’.” She then goes off to the furthest corner of the room to relieve herself but her friend Elizabeth wisely removes her from the room before things go further awry.

Elizabeth has other moments. For example, after defeating her wadyship’s ninjas (yes, I said ninja) she rips out one of the hearts and quips “I have tasted many a heart, but I dare say, I find the Japanese ones a bit tender.” She is not squeamish about her part in eliminating the living dead plague that is upon her beloved England.

She “feels a sense of joy as she watched cage after cage of zombies burn – heard their terrible shrieks as the fire (which they feared above all else) licked at their feet, then ignited the whole of their putrid flesh and hastened them back to hell.” A bit like Gorey’s Rhoda really. Poor dear.

As tensions between Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy cool, they manage a walk around the grounds of his estate. He carrying his brown bess, and she the lead ammunition in her pocket. In parting she says “your balls, Mr. Darcy” and hands them back. A little more tea up the nose I dare say.

I hope I have not spoiled too much of the novel for you. Perhaps I should have put ‘spoiler alert’ at the top and not here at the end? Oh well. The above is but a taste of the delights that await you in Zombies, should you dare pick up a copy.

So Close to My First Video

2010-06-06T15:41:00.001-07:00

I hoped to entertain you all with a little video clip right in my blog a la KitKat. That way, I could be very hip. Or as the crazy kids say these days, 'cool'. Much like the first nylon fur coats of yesteryear, I am hoped to be so modern. Alas, like hoping to move on from my rotary phone, it is just not meant to be.

Still, I have to share with you this delightful little CBC clip. It commemorates the birth of the faux mink coat in Canada on June 3rd, 1949. Why they did it in June should have been a warning sign for those in the fur industry. Isn't that like trying to sell motorcycles in January or a SkiDoo in July?

I like the sales pitch more than the coat ~ "next to a rich and handsome husband, the average girl would like most to have a mink coat. And she's just about as likely to get one as the other."
I don't know about that. True, it begs the question, which comes first, the mink coat or the rich husband. But in terms of one over the other, a good mink coat can't run out on you (they are deceased when they make them you know) and as Judge Judy says, "beauty fades, but fur is forever".

Still, times were a changin' even back then, and perhaps a more genteel approach would have been better.

And what happened to the good ol' days when it was "every girls dream to own a fur coat"? What happened I ask? And why? Wear one now and your just as likely to have paint thrown on you as not. It's sad really. All those munchkin mink out there not being allowed to fulfil their destiny. Why won't you help the mink by wearing them? Why?

The news spot is also a little politically incorrect and, admit it or not, we all find a little guilty pleasure in that. If you really don't, then think of it as a history lesson. Did you know that if "a white man can fool an Eskimo on furs, you can fool anyone".

Maybe that is where the fur industry went wrong, there is just no foolin' no body no more.
http://archives.cbc.ca/on_this_day/06/03/

Mother was right about the underwear

2010-05-27T12:44:00.000-07:00

I just got back from my annual, two years in a row now, physical. Now that I am in my forties, it’s time to be responsible with one’s own health. Those that know me will be shocked to learn that I was a few minutes late and no sooner walked in than the nurse was out calling my name.

To me, that is just perfect timing. I really am responsible for putting her back on schedule. Plus, I didn’t need exert myself by sitting and then standing again so shortly after. Nurse Ratched needs to work on her bedside manner though.

“Shoes off” is all she said as she pointed to the scale.
“Do you exercise?” she asked. “Hello, look at me.” I thought. I simply answered in the affirmative.
“Do you smoke?” she asked. I answered in the negative.
“Drink?” She caught me off guard. Was this a continuation of the previous question? Or was she actually offering me a drink? I need to go to the doctor’s office more often. I took a shot “G&T” I said. “I’ll take that as a yes” was her reply as she ticked her little box.
I lost interest when my beverage was a no show so politely answered her questions and filled the cup when she handed it to me.

Hustling me into the exam room, she pointed at a robe and said everything EXCEPT (she was very emphatic on that point) your gitch comes off and that goes on. Off came my trousers, it was then I noticed what a sorry pair of underpants I had on. I call them broken in and comfortable. IronMan calls them tissue held together with an elastic band.

I decided that rather than face a man with ratty looking unmentionables, I would play dumb and go commando. He had to do the turn your head and cough and finger test anyway, surely he would ask me to remove them eventually.

Either way he wasn’t fazed. He told me I had put on weight since last year (there’s a reason not to go back next year) and then when I wasn’t all suited up after he had stepped out for about 30 seconds he thought he was all funny telling me it takes longer to dress as you get older. Not funny.

I was then sent to the lab for a needle jab, several vials of blood were sucked out and then I was on my back for an EKG. “This is the worst part” the technician said as she ripped the little tabs off the zones of my body. At least I had the foresight to manscape so there wasn’t much hair to pull on. Or pull off?

“I’ll call you if anything comes back”, so said my comedian doctor. That was it. No sucker for being a good patient? No G&T and no pat on the back. Mind you he did give me a poke in the backside, so I guess I'll have to make do with that.

They Paved Paradise.......

2010-05-20T19:15:00.000-07:00

Today was a day of firsts. First day of my new job. Officially, I guess it makes more sense to say the last day of my last job as in a certain someone’s infinite wisdom it made sense to make me do two jobs for two weeks, but whatever. First day of not having my usual social network at work and first day attempting a new mode of transport to work. Yes, I took transit.

I convinced myself it was all very Sex and the City. Young(ish) girl in the big city starting out on a new adventure. Mind you, if it was really like the show I would have been taking a cab and not the Lakeshore Express bus, but still, for an extra $2.50 I felt above the riff-raff. Perhaps it was a little more Mary Tyler Moore. Alas, it was so nice out, I had no hat on my head which I could fling off in the middle of an intersection all the while dancing to my own theme song.

I have to say, RBC’s newest building is about as NY as Toronto gets. As Oscar Wilde said, it will be nice when it is finished. Keeping that in mind, it is a loft style environment. Floor to ceiling windows with automatic blinds that move with the sun, exposed beams, lots of concrete and every possible convenience you could want just an elevator ride away. Maybe not quite NYC, but definitely a step up from Mr.Grant and Minneapolis.

I felt like Carrie, even though I am a little more Charlotte (okay, a lot more) but wanted to be Samantha as I checked out all the Bay St. suits. Yummy. Miranda? Who dat?

Having many parcels from said former job in tow, I splurged for the comfy express bus on the way to work. Apres day of business, I met CJ and we went to visit our uncle in the hospital. After that, a bite to eat and a pitcher of beer ~ summer is here bitches!

As it was getting on in the evening, I thought it would be safe to take the streetcar home. A pleasant enough ride I must admit – I got a seat and no one spit in my mouth, unlike NY in the Spring! Crawling along Queens St., it occurred to me that my day of firsts was also a day, like all will be, of lasts. I saw the haunts of my youthful shenanigans being lost forever.

The 4 story fun house at the corner of Queen and Bathurst (you wanna see my pasties?) has been boarded up and looks slated for condos. The Boom Boom Room (good time Johnny) is a Hero Burger and another locale (the name escapes me) is now “Queen West’s hottest address” and there are only four suites left. At one point or another, it was the last time I passed through the doors of each but no more. Even if I wanted to, they are gone.

So here I sit, Kilkenny buzz fading fast. Glad to have set a ‘course for a new adventure’ (can you name that tune?) but looking forward at the same time to my last day….and early retirement!

How do you like me now?

2010-05-13T15:36:00.000-07:00

Okay, so it wasn'tthe FIRST impression I made, but the first day on my new job did not go as well as one would have hoped. Thankfully it did not happen the day of the interview, or who knows where I would be!

Morning was all good. Met people, charmed them to death of course, cause that’s what me does don’t you know? My new boss even offered to take me for lunch! As it was raining, I grabbed my trusty Harrods’s umbrella and we hit the street.

In an effort to control my rain shield, as it is such a blustery day, I had the arm wresting on my shoulder and the ribs of it were actually rubbing against the back of my head. Arriving at the restaurant, I went to fold away my brolly, only to find it stuck to my head. My curly locks were caught in the mechanism and with my new boss staring at me with that “what the hell?” look, I gave it a yank and found freedom. I couldn’t bring myself to look inside it.

As the waitress showed us to our table, I bit my lip to stop from crying out in pain.

For the afternoon, I was sent off to meet various partners I will be working with in the future. When I met one of them, she said I looked familiar. After the “where have you worked game” we found out we went to the same high school and she was a friend of my sisters! Small world. I was thrilled when she suggested, as it was 4:00 o’clock, that we go for tea/coffee. “Divine” I thought to myself.

Tea in one hand, scone in the other, we were walking across the lobby of RBC Plaza, north tower, and I, clearly not paying attention, rounded a large planter and into the end of a very low bench.

Tea, meet floor. Scone, meet floor. Robert, bloody shin included, meet the floor. And let me tell you, there are just as many people in that lobby at that time of day as you would think and none of them were too quick with the help either!

I would have pointed and laughed if it had been someone else (after checking if they were okay first) so I tried to laugh it off. Not wanting to make an even worse impression, I saved pulling up my pant leg for some private time in the bathroom. Not pretty. These pants are definitely going to the dry cleaner.

Shaking it off, I went home looking forward to Thursday night with the boys. A walk over in the rain would clear my head. But no, my Wellingtons kept waking back on my new scabby bruise. So it was more like a limp in the rain with a bald patch on the back of your head……not the best day.

My Kingdom For a Piece of Cheese

2010-05-08T13:05:00.000-07:00

Further evidence was discovered this morning that validates my theory that things happen in three’s. Last year, three garage sales – one, two, three…$1200 for our trip to France. Last year, one, two, three days of good weather for the aforementioned sales.

I fear this season’s trend….one sale, one crappy weather day and lower than usual sales. On the plus side we did manage to off load a microwave, rare at any garage sale, and loads of lower value bric-a-brac items. However, the higher ticket, larger space consuming pieces stubbornly remain.

Our take of $170 barely covers one piece of cheese for CJ! Although, now that she has the straight bear, perhaps she won’t be so easily persuaded by cute French cheesemongers!

I hope next week’s long range forecast is accurate – twice as hot, half the wind and, please Lord, four times the customers!

Take Good Care Now

2010-05-08T11:53:00.000-07:00

I guess when they say things come in three’s, they mean everything. Good or bad, right or wrong, it seems to follow that pattern. In the case of the Mitchell family, we currently have dad going through his chemo, Uncle NDP having had major surgery on his jaw and our Uncle Gord who passed away last weekend. That last one isn’t a health problem any more per se, but it definitely precipitated it.

As indicated in my previous posts, I am not adverse to a good funeral. And as long as there is a women’s auxiliary waiting in the church basement, I am pretty much assured that it will be “good”.

Uncle Gord’s funeral had all the trimmings – CJ, having held herself together for most of the day, bursting into tears upon hearing the first note of Amazing Grace, several elders confusing my niece’s boyfriend for her brother (despite their constant hugging and hand holding) and, of course, sandwiches!

At first I was a little worried. “Immediate family” were invited to the graveyard for the internment and was confused as to whether or not that included me. Being assured that it was spouse, kids and brothers and sisters, my tummy (and therefore mind) turned to food.

The hall in the Presbyterian Church was set up just as I had hoped. Under the lovely shine of saran, I saw that which I coveted most ~ funeral sandwiches and squares. There were tuna, salmon, egg (yummy) and roast beef. Shockingly on the light side, was the much sought after cream cheese and cucumber.

Given my uncle’s popularity, I was a little uneasy when I noted that there were only four trays of the delicacies. Cabernet and I chatted as we waited for the “immediates” to return. Apparently, saran is like a magical force field, enforcing good manners in social settings. Hungry yes, but we wouldn’t dare push it aside and chow down before the family did.

Having joined us, grace over, it was go time. Plates in hand, we started up the line and then, someone waved us over to meet some long lost step-cousins children or some such thing. I know, I know, people first, things (sandwiches included) second. But come on, these were primo!

My anxiety eased when I saw the fine ladies of the auxiliary returning to replenish the depleted platters. My brave, or perhaps foolish, niece, tried some odd looking sandwich that had pink, not salmon either, but Pepto-Bismol pink, filling. It only took one bite for her to decide that it was not for her.

Odd or not, I do not waste such a treat, so I finished it for her. I have to say, at first I thought it was strawberries and something, but after spitting a cherry pit into my hand, I verified the source of said sweetness. Mother said she hadn’t had that "treat" for years and loved it as a child. “It” is cream cheese with mashed maraschino cherries. Yes, it tastes as gross as it sounds.

In the end, we all had our fill, and more importantly, it is so much easier to recognise such things on a full stomach, shared many memories of Uncle Gord and had a good ol’ visit with people we don’t get to see enough of.

Uncle Gord, you will be missed.

Lord help me!

2010-04-26T18:25:00.000-07:00

Papa is going through chemo after a clean bill of health for several years since lymphoma first reared its ugly head. Confident, however, is what we all are this time round as his health, spirits and appetite are much better. Even so, we are there to lend as much support as we can.

So, this Sunday I headed to the F-dot planning to spend the night and then drive him to Mississauga in the morning for treatment. As one of my dad’s sisters just celebrated her 75th birthday, the siblings invited her out for a celebratory brunch. Mother asked if I would like to join and as it was a great opportunity to visit relatives I don’t often see, I thought it a fine idea indeed.

For one reason or another, brunch became dinner and a not-the-top-of-my-favourite-restaurant-list was selected as the destination. It was the birthday girl’s choice however, so I strapped on my boot flask and agreed to go back to At the Crossroads (see December 2008).

I vaguely recalled the buffet being somewhat palatable so I thought I would give it a little looky when offered a choice between that and ordering off the menu. And when our way too perky waitress Nicole said the soup of the day was cheeseburger chowder (yes, you read that correctly. Really, I know you don't drink the liquid fire, but how much bong water did you shoot back to come up with that recipe?) I definitely thought things would be better at the trough. But no.

The wise words of Roseanne Barr zipped through my head as I passed the “salad” bar ~ “chicken salad, egg salad, tuna salad…..what difference does it make? They’re all just different words for mayonnaise”.

This is how I envision a brainstorming session in the kitchen at Crossroads:

Chef #1 “Why don’t we cut up cucumbers for the salad bar?”
Chef #2 “And add mayonnaise!”
Chef #1 “How about we add carrots to the salad bar?”
Chef #2 “And add mayonnaise!”

I now know who buys those 5 gallon pails at Costco. I decided to order off the menu.

Captain Highliner did not do my ‘ocean perch’ and favours let me tell you what. I managed to crack through the crust but that didn’t leave much fish for my tummy. I would have filled up on the tartar sauce, but I am pretty sure it was just mayonnaise. Luckily I had sauce in said flask so all was okay.

Everyone thought having sauerkraut with fish was an odd idea, but when your choice of sides includes ‘broasted’ potatoes (no Nicole, battering potatoes, then frying them and THEN coating them with oil and baking them, does NOT make them healthy) and cauliflower, I really had no choice.

I commend people’s ability to resist the drink. I don’t understand it or condone such a practice, but I can respect it. But to me, a little tipple enhances even the blandest of meals. Champagne and OJ at breakfast, a little wine with lunch, cocktails before dinner. And if that is what food tastes like sober, I’ll continue to take my meals in glass.

Glee - Take Two!

2010-04-20T19:30:00.001-07:00

I think we can all agree that based on last week’s Glee episode, my previous post was accurate and they should have ended the series. Everything had a bow on it and the storylines were neatly wrapped.

However, having just viewed ‘the’ Madonna episode, I would like to retract my earlier statement and save judgement for another week.

With CJ, the straight bear and Kitkat at my side, we braved another show and, hello, loved it! The hair digs are getting better and the songs were fabulous.

Maybe it was the Madonna. Maybe it was the Hendricks gin. Maybe it was dinner from the Sushi Box ~ which, as Kitkat pointed out had several white walls ideal for a Pearl Harbour motif, perhaps with a Hello Kitty piloting one of the planes. Maybe it was the thought of Finn, Mohawk and Jessie, well, you know….maybe it was all of the above. But my friends, Glee appears to be back.

Phil McKraken

2010-04-19T16:10:00.001-07:00

Well now, let’s see….what has happened since last I wrote?

I plumbed for one. IronMan made a fine assistant as I scurried under my kitchen sink this past foul weathered Saturday. With only one extra trip to Canadian Tire (I forgot the silicone sealant) I installed my new chrome finished Plymouth faucet with no leaks! It comes with a 48” hose. Now I like a big hose, but really, that seems a little excessive.

Not only did I discover my handiness with a wrench and plumbers tape, but also my new pet peeve. At least while I am at work. People, come on, why do you insist on having conversations in doorways? Know what, you have your coffee. Maybe someone else would like in the kitchen so they can get some too. ‘Cause without it, you just might find yours going down the front of your pants. Man, and I don’t even drink coffee.

Can’t decide on whether you want to go to the lobby or the main part of the floor. I can, and I need to get to my desk. So move your backside from the black box thingy where I have to swipe my security pass. You can give your Tim Horton’s order standing in the elevator lobby just as easily.

But please, not in front of the elevator door itself. I know it’s Mississauga and TTC protocol probably means nothing to you. But let the people OFF FIRST. And once you’re on don’t hold the door so you can chat. You aren’t the president of elevator world where you can do whatever you want. Gosh.

And you know that Slap Chop, Sham Wow guy? I find him more attractive than I probably should. The man makes a good pitch, what can I say?

I also learned that in the movie Clash of the Titans, when Apollo says “release the kraken”, he should have said “release the krappy movie”. Mission accomplished Apollo, mission accomplished. Sam Worthington didn’t even take his shirt off once. Not once. Although the sarong did wonders for his legs.

In other movie news, Tina Fey stole my ex-boyfriends now famous “it’s not the blood, it’s just the cranberry” line. Substitute cabernet for cranberry, and there you go. That was not a good night, but I learned two valuable lessons. One, a goatee and excessive amounts of alcohol do not mix (you thought holding your girlfriends hair back was bad?) and two, pants made of PVC retain just about anything that lands in the pockets. For days. Food for thought.

One of the ladies that lunch

2010-04-09T12:40:00.000-07:00

A life of leisure is what I was designed for. Don’t get me wrong, I am not opposed to working, it’s just that I want to do it when I want to and not when I am told. And 8 hours a day seems a little excessive. I think a 10:00 AM start is more than civilised, a two hour lunch starting at noon (one does need time for a nap) and then wrapping up at 4:00 (assuming you have someone to prepare your tea, if not, finish at 3:30). Then it is cocktail hour so you really are looking at a full day as it is.

Being off during the week is such fun! CJ and I spent the morning trying on kilts at The Scottish Company. Mother, you gotta love your parents, has it in her head that for this year’s Fergus Highland games, we all need to do the 10 km run wearing kilts. At first, I wasn’t crazy about the idea. All I could picture were what my brother calls my “lucky legs” (lucky they hold me up) sticking out from under a mass of tartan.

However, top that sucker off with a vest, jacket, shirt, tie, sporran, clan crested pin, hose, garter flashes, your skean dubh and ghillie brogues I am one hot looking haggis! I, of course, will have to upgrade my sporran for the standard ‘dress’ one. They had on display, an arctic fox version that would go a treat with my new coyote hat. There was also one, I think it was mink, that had the head flopping over the top and the mouth was the clasp.

It was tres Edward Gorey and completely delicious! CJ said veto but I think if I can get Kitkat to have a look, he will side with me. The fox might draw some undo attention to that general area, but then if people ask me “what’s under your kilt” I could always say “the rest of the fox”.

I need Fauntleroy’s official Scottish seal of approval before I proceed and it is good that I have some thinking time. I had settled on the Prince Charlie style but then saw the Sherriffmuir and was instantly drawn to it! Slightly more “look at me” but still classic. What do ya’ll think? Prince Charlie on the left, Sherriffmuir on the right. One has a ‘V’ shape, the other squared off.

Move over Veuve Clicquot

2010-04-09T04:37:00.000-07:00

As it turns out, turning 41 is about as easy as turning 40. A smidge easier even as there were no “oh my God I’m turning 40” panic attacks.

All you have to do is wake up and have someone make you a yummy breakfast of bacon, French toast (made using challah bread), eggs and fresh fruit. Oh, and make sure they warm up the maple syrup and put in fresh blueberries. You don’t want cold syrup to ruin nice warm toast and stop the melting butter.

Then you go to the DMV to renew your license and find out that since 40, they have instituted a $60 “city tax” (that was the only bad part of the day ~ David Miller, you stink!) but at least I got in the “if it is your actual birthday today” express line. There is no such thing, but as I walked straight to a wicket, I told myself I was getting VIP service.

When you get home, you need to find a red oval Le Creuset Dutch oven that gets you a little more excited in your pants than it should. You can ignore the card that says “Farting Is An Art” on the front and “Happy Birthday Rembrandt” on the inside. That is just rude.

As nothing says turning 41 like a trip to Costco, you can throw in that too. However, stay away from the cheese samples. I have never met a cheese, or many other things, that I could not swallow, but their “apple cheddar” tasted like I licked that ass of a long dead monkey. So gross, I had to discreetly spit it in my hanky.

If someone happens to ask you what you would like to do for your birthday and afternoon tea is your thing, then the Windsor Arms is the place to go. IronMan had asked earlier in the week what I wanted to do and I hadn’t given it much thought so I booked us in. It was a nice way to spend the afternoon, especially given the cold drizzling weather we had. Not a huge fan to their Colin and Justin make-over in the one room, so we asked to be moved to the “traditional” side.

Oh, and you will enjoy your tea a lot more if beforehand you get a surprise massage in the spa on the fourth floor. Especially if your masseuse is a burly Greek boy named George. The massage was of the Swedish variety, not the Greek. Alas, not every day can be perfect.

And since you are on a tour of Europe, why not wrap things up with a pleasant evening reminiscent of your 40th? Provence Délices is a Cabbagetown restaurant I have walked by numerous times and last night was able to enjoy their wares. IronMan hesitated in making reservations having read some of the on-line reviews, but a friend assured him the food was worth it even if the service was a little lackluster. Kind of like Cuba, but in reverse.

Granted, the waiter’s constant “you are very welcome” sounded a bit forced and I am sure were the result of his reading reviews about himself, and he could have used a shower, but really, to me, that just added to the authentic French experience. As Karen Walker says, “the French, peeyoo and blah blah blah….”

The above mentioned friend also made the evening special by introducing me to my new favourite champagne – Georges Gardet. Before I could order anything gin related, an ice bucket was set on the table and the pop of the cork was heard. So delicious! And as IronMan is a teetotaler, I was forced to polish it off by myself. I vaguely heard something to the effect of “you don’t have to drink the whole thing” a couple times. Luckily, the sound of the bubbles drowned that out.

I indulged, as I am wont to do, in Foie Gras, but have to say that IronMan’s Charcuterie was the blue ribbon winner when it came to appetizers. That, and the piping hot baguette they smack right on the table, would be more than enough for two people.

Much like the new Dutch Oven, my Choucroute Garnie got me more excited in the trouser area than it should have. However, at 41, I hear I should take that movement wherever and whenever I can get it.

If you simply follow the above steps, substituting things you like to do where applicable of course, you too can ease into your 41st year.

Viva Cuba!

2010-03-28T07:00:00.000-07:00

Take one part no kids, one part IronMan, one part kick-ass beach, several parts gin and mix for a perfect vacation. Ola amigos! I am back from a week of fun in the sun. Aside from one day trip to Santa Clara, it was all butt on lounge chair either on the beach or next to the pool (with a convenient swim up bar).

The highlight of our day trip was a stop at a cigar factory. What a process! Each person is an expert at one thing and every cigar is quality checked at least 6 times before it goes into a box. They even have a machine that tests if a cigar is too tight or loose (insert your own joke here) by sucking air through it (insert your second joke).

It was a little uncomfortable as our group of 20 plus people went tromping from work station to work station seeing what each person was doing. If that many people came by my desk to watch me work, I would have suggested a few places they could stick their cigars.

I did manage to exercise my brain somewhat by reading four books ~ The Sisters – The saga of the Mitford family, Versailles, eclipse (granted, this was more junk food than exercise. Jacob, stop being such a wilt! Bella is a tool) and Nicholas Nickleby.

Let’s see if you can match some of my favourite quotes back to their book. I’ll start with an easy one. “It’s always better to make something out of nothing – that’s the French way.” Then there is “no one seemed to care what became of the daughters, least of all their father, they were ugly anyway.” “You can generally count on a sodomite to appreciate the company of witty and fashionable women” truer words were never spoken!

This next one is not only a quote, but can be used as a macabre conversation starter at your next dull dinner party “is it contrary to the rules of etiquette for a dying person to exploit the pity of their friends to make them do what they want?” Discuss.

And did you know, after the French revolution the hearts of the Kings of France were sold to a painter and used as pigment in a painting called “A cozy view of peasants at work”.

My brain indeed needed a little stimulus. I couldn’t very well give my liver all the attention. “All inclusive” can be dangerous when you have a swim up bar and people bringing you drinks when you can’t even be bothered to get wet. G&T was in order most days, but Cinzano helped me fantasize about Tuscany and Pastis fondly reflect back on Provence. Ahhhhhh.

Part of our package was a massage and body wrap. I didn’t know Looney Tunes opened a spa in Cuba. Only in cartoons have I seen a massage where they use the “slap chop” method. It was 25 minutes of having your back pulverized by the ‘masseuse’ (who I swear was also part of the ‘Musical Extravaganza’ show in the theatre) and then being flipped over, painted with a seaweed paste and wrapped in a plastic sheet. I ended up looking, and feeling, like Laura Palmer.

He was explicit in stating that I should NOT take off my underwear (weird, but as it was a shoulder and back massage only, I went with it) but when he sent me to the shower said not to get the black seaweed on anything as it would stain. Hello, you painted my legs and I am not wearing my Velcro side-release gitch!

Oh well. It was a something to do between defeating IronMan on the Alice in Wonderland size Chess and Checker boards. I will concede that he beat me at Crazy Eights, but let me assure you all, when it came to gin, I was the undisputed champion.

Ciao Italia!

2010-03-19T17:57:00.000-07:00

Ever since our successful, 12 person-no-fighting-and-yes-we-all-got-along soiree to France last spring, I have been somewhat addicted to VRBO looking for my next European fix. And let me tell you boys and girls, I have found IT!

Look out Tuscany, here I come. Oh, I and the first 15 people that sign up ~ it’s just like the Glee club! Actually, there are only 14 spaces left as I need the Winnipeg Diva to make my little plan work.

Provence, in part, was funded by three communal garage sales. CJ’s island this summer is being similarly funded. By 2011 (maybe 2012 if people are REALLY willing to commit) we will surely all have purged our homes nearly to death. I suppose we can start yanking down the drywall and selling that and copper wire will fetch a good price as metals are at an all time high.

Spot #2 then is for the aforementioned Diva at the house, nay, villa, I have discovered. Replete with its own Roman amphitheatre “located in the wood of centuries-old oaks above the house and is in perfect harmony with nature”. I figure, the first night we hold her back from drinking and have an all Italian opera for the locals. The money we, or should I say ‘she’ raises pays for the Villa and in return she gets the pick of rooms and our undying gratitude. And she doesn’t have to cook that week.

Fauntleroy will open on the piano (with Kitkat lounging across the top singing show tunes) and close with the harp. Blue doll will run the ticket booth (after a day of selling in the village of course), I will run the food stand ~ charging outrageous prices for even the smallest treat and we will surely find things for everyone to do. Oh, Boobers’ McGee can do security detail. Perfect! Or maybe he could hold people upside down by their ankles and shake out their pockets? Hmmmmm.

Anyway, applications are now being accepted for Italy 2011 (maybe 2012). You must be able to cook (look at that FREAKIN' kitchen) and/or have another talent that makes you fabulous!

No more excuses!

2010-02-21T17:52:00.000-08:00

For all of you out there who do not cook because you don’t have time and/or think it is cheaper to eat microwave/processed meals, listen up! I would like to introduce you to Donna Hay and her “fast five” section in Style at Home. In particular, her Lemon Chicken ~ I swear, no more than 5 minutes prep and you are done. Right from the magazine, this is it:

“Flatten (butterfly) a 2 lb chicken and place in a baking dish with four lemon halves and 6 cloves of garlic. Sprinkle with sea salt and cracked black pepper and drizzle with olive oil. Cook in a 400 F oven for 35 – 40 minutes or until cook through.”

Now, if you are saying chicken is not cheap, I call balls! Get yourself to Loblaw (not sure what happened to the ‘S’ but that’s what they call it now) as they have TWO chickens on for $10 all week. Stock up and freeze!

I have made this twice and it takes every ounce of strength I have not to eat the entire bird in one go but if you restrict yourself to just the nice brown parts of skin you won’t go overboard too much.

If you want to get ‘fancy’ slice your garlic cloves in half and use a sharp knife to cut slits in the chicken skin and slide them inside. Add some extra cloves to the pan if you like roasted garlic, and who doesn't?

For more brown skin, after you drizzle the oil, rub it in with your hands (or use a brush if you are squeamish about touching chicken). Give the lemons a half squeeze as well and if you want a real tangy flavour give them another squeeze post-roasting.

If you have Fleur De Sel, like I do since I was in France last year (did I mention that?) it is a fabulous addition as well. For easy clean up, line the roasting pan with parchment paper and simply bin it when you're done.

A green salad or, even easier, mashed potatoes (or both) and presto, dinner is ready. So good and so affordable.

I've still got it

2010-02-18T19:38:00.001-08:00

Tuesday evening, at the community centre where I teach yoga, I was signing my hours in at the front desk when I hear this little mousey voice say “now there is a handsome man”.

Excitedly, I looked around to see said handsomeness. My eyes came to rest on an elderly woman who, despite being indoors, had her large faux fur hooded jacket done up to the neck.

Realizing she was referring to moi, I blushed and said ‘thank you’.

“Do you have a young family?” she asked. Ummmm, excuse me, but do I know you? My doctor makes more idle chit-chat before the turn-your-head-and-cough test.

Caught off guard, I told her no, I did not have a “young family”. Saying I was divorced did dance through my mind but telling her that might have burst her little bubble.

“Well my granddaughter is in her first year university and she is such a lovely girl…..”

I couldn’t help but smile. That is so sweet, your gaydar is about as clear as your vision. First year, that’s what? Like 19, 20 years of age? Why would you want to set her up with a, ummm, 29 year old?

The wheels were starting to whirl in that little noggin of hers and it was time to make haste before she asked for my number. I bid her a fond farewell and headed to class with, truth be told, a little smile on my face.

Politically Incorrect Murder, She Wrote

2010-02-15T17:36:00.000-08:00

One New Year’s Eve, long ago, I made a resolution that I have actually managed to keep. It was to read all those ‘classic’ novels I had heard about but never had any desire to read. To date, I have read from Austen, Jane (Pride and Prejudice) to Wilde, Oscar (The Picture of Dorian Gray) and some 52 others in between.

Dickens took some getting used to (Our Mutual Friend was tough sledding) but now I can’t seem to get enough. Nicholas Nickleby is next on my list. Hands down, Robinson Crusoe was my favourite and I have gone back to it two more times (once after reading The Moonstone as it is referred to so often). Of course, Sherlock Holmes is the top of the heap but as I had read and enjoyed many of those pre-resolution, the ‘favourite’ title can go to Daniel Defoe. Silver medal to Jules Verne ~ Around the World in Eighty Days!

Admittedly I have not loved (or even liked) them all. Thomas Hardy and Jude the Obscure depressed me to no end. I kept thinking it, like the majority of others I had read would surely have a happy ending, but no. It did not. Not wanting to face another of his works on my own, I started our now defunct book club with Tess of the D’Ubervilles. While not the happiest of endings, I at least enjoyed it.

The realization that Friends is not a trustworthy source for the plot of classic works also dawned on me. Do you remember the episode where Rachel agreed to read The Shining if Joey read Little Women? And then she ruined the end for Joey by saying “Beth dies”. Know what? She doesn’t die. But after Jude the Obscure I have to say it wouldn't have been a shock.

Stories aside, I have also learned several useful tidbits about the evolution of words. Slut, for instance, used to (and I suppose still does) mean a poor house keeper. And slut’s wool is a dust bunny. Thank you Emily Bronte for putting me in the know.

I try to keep in mind that ‘such words’ worked their way into everyday language “way back when” but I have to say the use certain words makes my jaw drop. Smattered throughout some of the plots and storylines are phrases and descriptors used to characterize certain religious and ethnic groups. I have to say however, that G. K. Chesterton takes the cake when it comes to this.
Having read and re-read all of Holmes’ cases, I was looking for another set of murder mystery classics. ‘The Woman in White’ and ‘The Moonstone’ we both fantastic, but not as compact as one of Mr. Doyle’s adventures. I then stumbled across Mr. Chesterton and Father Brown.

Each story stands on its own and is a great way to spend 15 minutes before heading off to bed. Three or four back-to-back are the perfect accompaniment to an afternoon pot of tea. I can almost imagine the cook substituting some flour in my scone with rat poison or the butler slipping some arsenic in with the tea. Not that I have either of these domestics, but if I did……

None are not too taxing on the brain and remind me of episodes of Murder, She Wrote. Much like Jessica Fletcher, Chesterton’s parish sleuth has a “face round and dull as a Norfolk dumpling”.

Every once in a while though, he makes me drop my clotted cream and look around the room for the PC police. He seems to have been the Andrew Dice Clay of his generation – no one is safe. A certain religious figure is referred to as “that dirty old humbug that lived in the desert”. Another group that has stereotypically been referred to as, shall we say, tight, always seems to be in season.

But most cringe worthy is the use of the now strictly taboo ‘n’ word. Several of the stories take place in the United States as the little parish priest and his brown parcels set out on a North American crime solving spree. Between 1910 and 1935 I don’t think the etiquette police were quite as entrenched as they are now but he seems to be more than generous with his use of the word.

I don’t want to get into a big debate about whether or not we have gone too PC these days. I guess I understand why parents don’t want their kids thinking that a lumberjack will cut you out of a wolf’s stomach after you go visit Grandma. Although, really, pretty good lesson for staying away from wolves isn’t it? Serves ‘em right really. “Oh boo hoo, a wolf ate Red Riding Hood”. Well maybe you should have thought of that BEFORE you sent her into the woods with a basket of freshly baked goods. But I digress…..

I have to admit I am surprised that no one has ‘cleaned up’ some of the language but I guess Father Brown is not main stream enough to attract the attention of the censors. And on the plus side, after such offensive language I find myself having to indulge in a little snort of port, apres tea as it were, to take the edge off.

Budget Mariah

2010-02-09T21:17:00.000-08:00

I don’t even know where to begin….. all I can say is that the best part of tonight’s Mariah Carey concert was the gin martini I had with dinner before the show. Four of us met at BIFF’s before the show and partook of the Winterlicious menu. We rushed through our meal for no apparent reason. Showtime on the tickets was 7:30 but BK said there was no need to hurry ourselves based on her past experience with Mariah shows. Lord was she right.

Arriving at 7:35 we found our seats and were pleasantly surprised to have the lights go down just as we arrange our coats and tucked into our Smirnoff Ice. By 7:36 I realised why Mariah married Nick Cannon; she has access to a ready supply of C rated America’s Got Talent reject dancers. Seriously, I had better choreography to “I’ll Tumble For Ya” back in 1983.

7:51 rolled around and the pre-show got somewhat interesting as a rather buff boy peeled off his shirt. 5 seconds after that, he scurried off stage. Then the lights came back up and TWO HOURS later her majesty decided to grace us with her presence. The ‘intermission’ soundtrack was Michael Jackson and on the third play of the same album people started to boo while others gave up and left.

Her ‘show’ was less than 90 minutes and, how shall I put this, was crap. First, I think she picked up her set from a sale of the Wedding Singer movie. Second, her dancers, as mentioned, were B-A-D. Has this woman ever seen a Madonna, Kylie or Spice Girls show? Mariah, I know you like the spotlight, but your backup singers should frame you, not shame you. And what is with your FlashDance fascination?

Oh, and that 90 minutes included a Michael Jackson tribute by Big Nasty. And trust me, it was nasty. Your delay was longer than your concert lady – SING YOURSELF! I think I have a bad rep for being tardy but compared to Mariah, even my gay time is early.

I have now lost count, but my next point is this, it is NOT cute that you have your make-up artist and hair stylist come on stage to make you ready for your close-up. When did you sweat exactly? You were reclined on a chaise lounge half the time. Also, that does not make you a diva, it makes you obnoxious. If you want to be a diva, you need more feathers in your costume. I’ve had more on a pride costume than that boa.

And as for constantly returning to your drinks table for “tea”, Liza with a ‘Z’ beat you to that gag a long time ago Mariah with no ‘stage presence’.

I cannot even believe I waited to unveil my new Pull and Bear t-shirt for that. So mad!

Death and Taxes

2010-01-31T09:11:00.000-08:00

Being born and raised in Canada, one tends to get used to paying a large amount of tax. I can't speak from experience, but I can only assume new Canadians adjust to this as they are surrounded by shoulder shrugs that suggest 'that's the way it is'.

Off your pay, on everything you buy and just about everything you do, the government seems to have their hooks in you. I do realize that something has to pay for the roads I drive on, the doctor I go to see and the public parks that I enjoy so what can I do but shrug my shoulders?

But, as they say, there is always room for improvement. No, I am not politically active and yes, I grumble about what politicians should and could do better. Aside from being an armchair political quarterback, I rarely get fired up about any particular issue.

Once in a blue moon though, I read something about our system that makes me think, ‘damn right, I could do a better job!’ Case in point – in this weekend’s paper, there was an article about a model of the Lusitania that the City of Toronto owns. It was purchased in 1963 and was displayed at various venues until 2001 when it was put in storage.

A request has come from a Maritime Museum in Halifax to borrow the model for five years. Simple enough you would think, we have paying (as a taxpayer I can say the proverbial ‘we’) to store this 15 foot (plus glass case) model for 9 years and no one has laid eyes on it in as long a time.

Rather than say, "sure, off you go then", we have to act like the 3 year old in the playground who wants their toy back now that someone else has shown an interest in it. Given our track record, even if someone gave authorization without going through the proper channels, it would be back in town before anyone even knew it was gone. But now two, that’s correct, two levels of government need to say ‘okay, you can borrow it’.

Toronto’s Economic Development committee, whose “Primary focus is the economy, with a mandate to monitor, and make recommendations to strengthen Toronto's economy and investment climate” has to say ‘yes’. Does that description sound like it has anything to do with model ships? What are we going to say to Halifax? “Yes you can borrow it but you have to open a tuna canning plant here in Toronto.”

And then, it has to go to City Council. “Really?” As Seth and Amy would say, “Are you serious?” Do you not have more important things to focus on? At the very least, potholes or perhaps making our neighbourhoods safer. Unless the decision is to fill the model with medical supplies and sail it to Haiti, shame on you for wasting your time and MY money.

Buyer Beware

2010-01-26T19:48:00.000-08:00

On the weekend, I took IronMan on a whirlwind tour of some antique shops around Toronto. He calls anything previously owned “junk” and does not understand why anyone would buy something with another’s cooties on it. He is a good sport about it though and after touring a 20 000 sq. foot warehouse in 5 minutes waited patiently for another 30 or so for me to finish.

I got very excited at ‘Of Things Past….’ when I came across a Leather Top Secretary (mind your comments Kitkat and Papi). It was beautiful – compact, sleek and would one day tuck neatly into the corner of my retirement home room with my apple snug inside and serve nicely as a bedside table.

Checking the construction, I noted the drawers were all dove tailed, the long slender legs did not appear to have been broken and the leather was all there. In my mind, a charming, witty dandy of a Victorian gentleman had composed untold correspondence from this charming piece and I had to have it!

$2400 price tag aside, I was shocked by just how perfect it was. My dandy was clearly a teetotaller as there were no water rings in the leather where he set his gin and tonic down in summer or hot tottie by winter. I could spy no burns from where he had carelessly rested his pipe as he wrote to his lover. Having just seen Sherlock Holmes, I knew something was amiss. If it looks to good to be true…….

IronMan was less than pleased when I dropped to my knees (now now boys) to investigate further. Imagine my surprise, when on the bottom of MY Victorian I spied a bright yellow manufacturer’s label. My peepers not being what they once were I had to squint to make out the details. ‘Theodore Alexander’ it read. Promising I thought. Perhaps this Theodore was ahead of his time and wanted people to know who he was! Bright yellow was clearly the way to go.

The absence of any tape or pin to hold said label in place should have been my next clue. Squinting again, I saw the proverbial fine print – “Made in Vietnam”. Crushed is the word my pretties. Crushed.

Wouldn’t $2400 in Vietnam buy me a house or a cow or something? Like a puff of smoke from his pipe, my Victorian was gone. I was outraged and convinced that this had to be a mistake. Another buyer was trying to throw me off the scent and waiting for the price to drop so they could have it for themselves! No no no!

Well folks, Google never lies. In about 2 minutes I found the Theodore Alexander webpage and in about another 30 seconds, found my desk. And one e-mail later, to my local dealer identified via Mr. Alexander’s landing page, found out this desk retails NEW for $1805. Which means it is worth about $700, so I’ll give you $500.

I still find the little desk charming, and maybe, just maybe, a little note will find its way inside warning people about the high price. And then, as this particular consignment shop works its magic and the price drops, I will be able to snap it up.

Having recently been introduced to Kendrick’s Gin by Papi, I am sure I will manage a plethora of water rings all on my own.

Happy New Year!

2009-12-31T10:47:00.000-08:00

Here I sit on the verge of a New Year, my 41st! As I look back over the last couple of weeks, never mind the entire year, I have come to realize a few things:

· My transition to fuddy-duddy is almost complete. Aunt Karen hosted Christmas this year, and although her house is by no means cold, I felt it necessary to take slippers with me to keep my feet warm. Lord help me, but I am a pair of socks and sandals away from following in my father’s and brother’s ill fashioned footsteps.

· I am surrounded by the best possible circle of friends. Kitkat, who as Pink Girl says is “too creative by half for his own good”, pulled together a book celebrating our trip to Provence. I am not talking about scrap-booking here either. This book could, and should, be published and sold at Chapters.

· A 15 pound, bone-in ham can indeed serve as a canapé. IronMan and I hosted what is becoming an annual winter soiree in the beach. Last year, said ham was also served and I feel will continue to grace the table in years to come.

· Wii is fun! Except for the snowboarding game and that is just dumb. Thanks to Blue Girls “lift your heels” advice, I can now easily break the 100 mark in the soccer ball game. Decapitated panda heads be gone!

· 2010 holds Great Jam Expectations. I wonder if Ms. Havisham would be wondering around with jam and jelly stains on her wedding dress in that book? And would her dress catch fire as she carelessly reaches for a canning jar on the other side of the stove? Who can say? But with my new Williams Sonoma jam pan, I assure you all that you shall never be short of jams and jellies again!

· DON’T save things for special occasions and don’t put off today the things you want to do. Tuesday, after my swim, I was leaving the change room to go and teach. Upon opening the door I saw a team of paramedics working a man who had a heart attack while playing squash. We also lost four more Canadian soldiers yesterday. You never know when your number is up, so don’t have regrets when it is.

I am not sure what you are doing this evening, but whatever it is, I hope you are surrounded by the ones you love and have plenty of gin on hand!

I'm One of Them

2009-12-14T18:54:00.000-08:00

CJ and I have two guilty cinematic indulgences ~ both I claim with pride and embrace with open arms, so don’t judge us!

First are Will Ferrel movies, does it get any better than Anchorman? I’ll admit, the well seems to be on the verge of running dry since Talladega Nights. Blades of Glory and Step Brothers were not worth the $12.50 (Will, if you’re reading this, you owe me) but “go f**k yourself San Diego" will keep us going back ~ at least once more.

Second, I have officially pitched a tent for Camp Jacob! In Camp Jacob? Because of Camp Jacob? Regardless, I have pitched a tent (every possible pun intended) and think Bella is a fool for picking that goody-goody, paled-faced, mealy-mouthed ninny (thank God for Scarlett O’hara) Edward.

Alice, his sister, is fierce and has a totally wicked hair-cut and wicked awesome car. Oh dear, it’s started, I have become one on the Twilight teeny bopper girls. I lay the blame squarely on CJ’s shoulders. No one would see the first one with her and now I have been sucked (get it, like a vampire) in.

It’s like the Spice Girls. At first, I had to dislike them on principle alone. But every time I heard one of their songs, I was forced to sing along, and now, even though they haven’t done anything since the best tour ever, I am a fan.

As we left the theatre tonight, Jacob fix satiated, I made CJ promise to lend me the last two books. I was disappointed to hear that they do not include photos. I had been hoping for the pop-up variety. Insert your own inappropriate joke here.

Bring on Eclipse!

Glee Must Die

2009-12-13T17:30:00.000-08:00

Don’t get me wrong, me loves the show, especially these last three weeks with all the baby shenanigans being revealed and, Oh My Gawd, Rachel’s version of “Don’t Rain On My Parade”, AMAZING! How do you get better than this:
http://v.youku.com/v_show/id_XMTM3NzQ0MzA0.html

But stop, now. All the story lines are wrapped up, at least the important ones, and leave something to our imaginations. The only thing I want to see more of is Sue, but she can get her own show. Maybe she can team up with Jack and Karen from Will & Grace for a spin-off combo.

Why must shows go on and on only to be remembered for their lack lustre, rating declining years? Dallas? Anyone? Never should have brought Bobby back from the dead. That should have been the end. And once Jane Wyman went into a coma, was Falcon Crest ever really the same? Twin Peaks too should have been a one season (maybe two because of Audrey) show.

The BBC, as Little Lord Fauntleroy points out, has it right. Their series have a beginning, middle and a not painful ending. Queer As Folk is a perfect example. Unlike the North American version that dragged on only to become predictable and too sweet, the UK series left you wanting more.

Absolutely Fabulous was a tad overdone to be sure, and the absence of any Patsy Stone costumes this Halloween is proof of that. Ab Fab aside, they seem to get fresh new shows every couple of years that work really well and give us characters you love.

If Little Dorrit had been an American production and shared the same success this side of the pond, I assure you there would have been a sequel. Don’t believe me? Was there not a Gone With the Wind Part II? Hmmmm? Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

So, Sue, pack your bags and head to NY (with a stopover in Washington to get Audrey) and start butting heads with Karen. That would be delicious. And you can send Grace back to Twin Peaks so they can get rid of her once and for all.

Odds and Sods

2009-12-06T19:24:00.000-08:00

Well hello strangers! I know I have been delinquent in my blogging but I have been mucho busy! Christmas is here and there are trees to decorate, garlands to trim, lights to be hung and presents to be wrapped! And now that the above is complete, I find I have to write and mention two holiday related stories.

First, IronMan and I lost our Black Friday cherries as we headed to New York (state, not city) for some shopping. It was mad busy and exhausting. After no sleep for 33 hours we conked out and slept for 14 hours! We just laid down for a nap, honestly, and then zzzzzzzzzzzz. Best sleep ever though I have to say.

Around hour 26 we stopped at the International House of Pancakes for a much needed sit and some energy. Apparently many shoppers had the same idea as the place was packed. Right across the street was our next target, a Target department store. Luckily, the line we saw at 4:00 AM was gone and we walked right in.

As I waited for IronMan to visit the WC, I couldn’t help but notice a woman walking into the store with her kids. Now, before I go any further, I have to clarify that I am NOT a parent and therefore have a policy that I will NEVER give advice on how to raise kids. However……

I don’t know how long her son had been up or how many stores he had been dragged too, but let’s just say he was cranky and was letting people know it. Yes, he was crying and yes I, like most people in the immediate area, wanted it to stop. BUT, does slapping your kid in the head and yelling “stop that crying” really make them stop crying?

Again, not a parent, but I’m pretty sure that smacking someone, of any age, is not a good way to stop them from crying. Laughing, smiling or having a good time, yes, but crying, no. A brave Target employee started to approach the woman but she turned and made a quick exit, stage left. I think someone will be getting coal from Santa.

Next, as I sat flipping through Food & Drink magazine, preparing for a little get together, I stumbled across some yummy little recipes smattered throughout the glossy pages – Sticky date pudding with Fin du Monde Caramel Sauce, Butter Poached Lobster, Brandied Chicken Liver Pate and Gin Mopped Salmon bites were just a few things to get my mouth watering.

Once again, not a parent, but maybe a couple of the above recipes would help the kid stop crying or the mother hitting. I’m just saying. In fact, forget the food and just go with the Brandy and Gin.

Anyway, one of the recipes and yes it’s an advert, but still…..goes like this:
Take 2 LARGE (of course) containers of KFC mashed potatoes, add 2 HEAPING tablespoons of sour cream, 4 slices of PRE-COOKED bacon, salt and pepper to taste and chopped chives for garnish.

Thank God for the chives, for a second there, I was worried this was going to be unhealthy. We had pre-cooked bacon when we were camping this year, and, ummm, gross.

Really? Has it come to this? Are mashed potatoes that hard to make? If you get new potatoes you don’t even need to peel them. Call them “rustic” and everyone will think you so clever. What’s next, buy a bucket of chicken and stitch it back together for your holiday turkey?

Shame on you! I think the name of the magazine needs to change to "& Drink" because that my dear, is not FOOD!

I am a manly man, dude.

2009-11-07T11:58:00.000-08:00

One of the side benefits to dating IronMan is a daily paper. I never bother having one delivered at home and only occasionally buy one on the weekend and it’s a nice treat to read one whenever I go over.

I recently stumbled across an article in the entertainment section about a couple that blog about the art of being manly. Brett Mckay, the ‘manly man’, has a 1970s moustache and mutton chops. His wife is not nearly as homely as I thought she would be but apparently likes her men a certain way. Well who doesn’t?

In the article they had a list of what manly men should know how to do and what they don’t do. Turns out, I am more manly than I thought. Included on said list were:

> Break down a door – this I know how to do. Kick for the area around the lock, never the hinge side.
> Perform a fireman’s carry – I can do ANYTHING related to a fireman.
> Treat a snake bite… that one got me. My ex was once stung by a scorpion on a camping trip and he lived. Does that count?
> Change a flat tire – can do and have done.
> Jump-start a car without cables. What am I, MacGyver? I know you can do it with a standard but it takes more than one person (or a downhill angle) and you pop the clutch as you get up speed.
> Start a fire without matches – even after all my Survivor watching, no. Unless I have a magnifying glass. But I am guessing if I don’t even have matches, I wouldn’t have that either.
> Cook meat or eggs on a stick – yes to the first what the hell on the second?
> Throw a bachelor party without strippers. A straight one? No problem there darling. Never been to a gay bachelor party but can’t see how different it would be from a Saturday night in the village where half the people look like peelers anyway.
> Deliver a best-man speech. If I am allowed to cry, then yes.
> Take care of a pregnant wife. This is foreign to me, but pregnant or not, shouldn’t she be taking care of the man? (LOL – kidding…. Or am I?)
> Braid their daughter’s hair. Daughter, mother, sister, girl bring it on! I could even braid my GI Joe doll’s hair when I was 3.

And a few of the “don’t do” for men were:
> Use emoticons. I don’t know what that is so I think I am good.
> Break up on Facebook – don’t even have an account and even if I did, I would still break up by text message like everyone else.
> Complain. About anything? Ever? Really, not even about my snake-bitten, pregnant wife who locked herself out of the house after starting a fire in the stove and forbade me from going to my best friend’s bachelor party because there were strippers? Whatever….everyone complains even if it’s only to themselves.

The artofmanliness blog is worth a look.... men only though. I don't think this link will work for chicks:

http://artofmanliness.com/

Happy Halloween!

2009-11-03T18:30:00.000-08:00

Good times is what Halloween was this year! We went back to the Power House for their annual haunted house. Set on the grounds of the old Lakeshore Asylum, it is rather frightening. While I must say it was not as spooky or scary as last year (it did not seem as dark and at no time were you locked in a room with no way out) it was still well done and we certainly needed our second set of underwear.

Thing 1 and Thing 2, the youngest of our crew, got the most out of it until IronGirl thought one more fright before bed would be a good idea. As she crept down the hall, her cat ran past her providing a cover for the ‘noise heard from the hall’. Just as Thing 1 breathed a sigh of relief saying “oh Coco, it’s you”, my sister jumped in the room with a loud “boo”. Tears ensued from one party, laughter from the other.

In the end, she says she was torn, she was proud as she had never scared someone so completely in her life, but felft bad for causing a young lad to cry. She got hers however when Thing 1 squeezed into her bed for the night.

Then of course there was Fred of whom you have already read about. He is a fine addition to my Halloween stash.

The Dollhouse Girls played host to a fantastic pumpkin carving party and I must say I did two of my most successful pumpkins to date. We had no need to go trick or treating as they, as usual, put on a spread that could not be beat. It was a good thing they filled us up as it was a COLD night on Church Street. Frigid, but also successful!

We were like stars on a red carpet! Our costumes drew the rave reviews they deserved (although they didn’t get us in any express lines for getting somewhere warm). The only thing missing was triumph in a costume contest, but not getting into a bar where they had a contest, what can one expect? We found warmth and libations at Lola’s and did indeed have fun.

Next year we just need to do the street earlier and make for the bars sooner.

Down With Mickey

2009-10-19T18:22:00.000-07:00

Last week I was lucky enough to head to Cozumel for a visit with my brother! He is on leave right now and after the go-go vacation they had in the summer, his family wanted a chill-out type vacation.

My sister-in-law rented a great condo for us rather than do the hotel route. It was right on the water (and had its own pool), three big bedrooms each with its own bathroom and a good size kitchen and dining area. I guess it is not tourist season just yet so it was not overly busy, in fact of the fourteen units in the building, only ours was occupied. It made getting a lounge chair nice and easy!

Every morning we would take breakfast on the balcony listening to the waves roll in and watch the cruise ships steam towards the south end of the island. We learned the first day that one does not go into town while the ships are docked. You can’t walk by a store front without someone offering you 10 t-shirts for $20 or some other equally garage sale bound fodder.

There was a comedian/entrepreneur that at least brought a smile to our faces with his honesty – “come, have a look, same junk, better price.”

Oh, and here is a Cozumel tip, if you ever buy fresh fish for dinner, make sure the fish monger cleans them for you! Luckily, as a kid, I paid attention when my dad gutted the pickerel we caught at Crane Lake.

One morning, a rather sharp looking ship crossed our path, the type of ship that would have inspired the expression 'I like the cut of your jib'. Rather than the usual white from the waterline up, its hull was painted navy and it had a red stripe going all the way round. I was disappointed to see gold Mickey Mouse ears smacked on the side of the funnel. My worst nightmare on the high-seas; trapped in a tin can with nothing but children as far as the eyes could see and the ears could hear.

Although, under the cover of darkness, I am sure it would be quite easy to make shark bait out of them. Roll Mickey for his outfit, lure them aft and play Titanic. Hee hee.

I never got close enough to the SS Minnie or whatever it was to give it much thought. But apparently the Mouseketeers thought they would have some fun with me back here in Canada.

As I am in the process of setting up for Halloween, my fall themed decorations are being packed away. Foolishly, I put my beautiful wheat sheaf in the garage and just covered it with a canvas bag. I was going to re-organize and pack it in its proper bin later. Well! Didn’t I go out there tonight to find much of the grain scattered about and two little black shadows scamper down the wall!

Rude is what I thought. I have recently been scolding IronMan for his efforts of ridding his house of mice. There is no issue with eliminating the little vermin, but it at least should be done humanely. He bought those sticky traps and I think they are cruel. I mean the traps are bad enough, but when he does catch a mouse, he just chucks the lot in the garbage - without putting the thing out of its misery! At least the old-fashioned ones give them one whack and it’s bye-bye. I also say 'no' to the sticky traps as IronMan's sometimes absent minded boyfriend managed to step in one and ruin pair of socks.

It was time for a visit to Canadian Tire and a look at what they had for killing wheat sheaf destroying vermin! Two traps for $1 – who knew? A little peanut butter and I hope that by tomorrow Mr. & Mrs. Mouse while have vacated the premises for that big block of Swiss Cheese in the sky.

And if the traps don’t do it, maybe the impregnated canary seed will do the trick. I hope it’s impregnated with poison or I might really be in trouble. I guess time will tell.

Suck It Martha.

2009-10-01T19:45:00.000-07:00

Don’t get me wrong, I like Martha Stewart and find her magazines and books inspire my creativity. Who can forget "Rest In Peas" ~ a classic! I have to say however, what people will pay (I won’t say what she charges because someone out there pays for it) for some of her merchandise is ridiculous. Her nickel plated brass bed makes me weak in the knees and I could justify that expense. Her Christmas décor, for the most part, is fabulous and doesn’t whip me into an outrage when I see the price.

But some of her Halloween things are a bit crazy. As Fauntleroy pointed out this evening, not only is it expensive, but she seems to have become addicted to glitter. A bright green glitter skeleton for $160? I say no! For a few years now though, I have admired, and for one of, her mummies.

As it turns out, this is my lucky Halloween. Two weeks ago, I mortified IronMan as we were out walking in the beach and we happened upon a store that was having a “going out of business” sale. On the sidewalk was a pile of ‘junk’ that had a ‘free’ sign in front of it. In said pile was a display mannequin ~ for FREE! I know right? What are the chances?

It reminded me that old Jack Handy skit from SNL and the thought for the day was “if you are ever in Chicago visiting the Sears tower, and you get blown off the observation deck, just go real limp and someone might catch you. They might be looking up and think, ‘hey, free dummy’.

Perhaps I got a little too excited but IronMan reluctantly agreed to hold Fred (I did not name him) while I confirmed with the owner he was indeed free. This turned out to be true AND the brand new pair of pants (that are my size) were included AND he asked me if I wanted more!

Fred is about my height, and quite heavy, so I could only manage him alone on my first trip. I now wish I had gone back for more immediately. With Fred complete, my mind raced to a massacre victim with their chest wretched open or a Lizzie Borden type scene in my front window!

Alas, it was not meant to be. I returned this weekend for a twin and they had either been taken away or dumped in the dust bin. Oh well, I would have to make do. For just $10 on raw cotton at Fabricland, $8 on a skeleton arm and foot and $16 on a head for Fred I was well on my way.

Granted, I did have to pay for the cup of flour, and the 5 cups of water will surely be tacked onto my utilities bill from the city, but really, that is nothing. So for less than $40 Fred has risen from the trash pile to this years Halloween centre piece.

Four and a Half things I like about FAME.

2009-09-26T04:51:00.000-07:00

I hate to be the one to have to tell you this, but the remake of Fame that landed in theatres yesterday is neither going too live forever nor will it fly high. I am surprised it didn’t go straight to video and crash and burn.

Not sure who came up with the idea for this updated version, but I fear someone at Disney must have been behind it. It is all scrubbed up and clean and everyone, in the end, has a happy ending. Gone is any sense of grittiness or reality. Apparently everyone who goes to PA will be a success.

I fear that Fame suffers from the same pitfalls that Sex In The City did – too many storylines that all end the same place ~ boring town. There are at least 8 ‘main’ characters and 3 teachers that you follow over 4 years (from Freshman to Senior) in 2 hours. It should have been a series with this first movie just about the first year.

Despite my review, I do recall four and a half things I did like:

1 - After a slow start, my hopes were revived by a stunning performance from Naturi Naughton. She sits at a piano singing her little heart out and for a brief moment brings your interest back to the film. Papi, you have a job to do!
2 - Then, there is a Moulin Rouge type dance sequence during the schools CarnEvil themed Halloween party. Costumes and dancing are impressive, but like the piano solo above, it ends.
3 - Kherington Payne was the next one to strut her stuff. And for a boy that likes boys, I have to say that girl has STUFF and she knows how to STRUTT it. Oh my, she can move!
4 - Not really in the movie, but the trailer for New Moon (the next movie in the Twilight series). That Jacob has been hitting the gym. If he had been in Fame, it would have been MUCH better – especially if he strutted his stuff with Kherington.
.5 My half point goes to Megan Mullally for her 10 second Karen Walker-esque moment that took me back to the good old doily days. Oh Karen, we miss you.

Sorry to say it, Fame bites, save your money for the new Alice in Wonderland.

Camping, And Not the Drag Kind.

2009-09-13T18:16:00.000-07:00

If memory serves, the last time I went camping was in Dubai. The heat was intense, there was no place to cool off and there was a scorpion stinging incident. This weekend however, I ventured to try it again.

There was sand, not as much as there was in the UAE, but the same kind, really fine that gets everywhere. By contrast, there was a wonderful lake to cool off in and only a tiny little cute toad hiding under our tent as we packed it away this time.

As slight miscommunication between Kitkat and myself delayed our Friday departure. After our usual Thursday night get together, he said, “I’ll be waiting out front at 10:30” ~ I took that to mean he would be downstairs at his apartment so I would only have a quick stop to chuck in his stuff.

Apparently, he meant he was staying over at Fauntleroy’s (just down the street) and that he would be waiting for me there. After hitting EVERY red light on University Avenue and seeing no Kitkat, I ascended the stairs to his apartment. I could tell by the lack of light behind his peephole he was not there.

Even before I knocked I knew where he was. It was one of the few times I wished I’d had a cell phone. I headed to IronMan’s as planned and we took a quick trip back to New Toronto to fetch Kitkat. In the end, it saved us sitting on the DVP and we were only a few minutes behind schedule.

If you can get by Salem Road heading east from Toronto, chances are things will be smooth sailing. Sure enough, we were at the gorgeous Sandbanks Provincial Park in due time and set about making camp. As D&D were working, we had brought their tents and set them up as well.

Not having camping supplies of my own, I tapped my family resources and after a visit from my dad and IronGirl had tents for all and a full kitchen. The tents I borrowed for Fauntleroy and Kitkat were for three, but let me tell you, ‘three man’ tents are barely big enough for one. You could get three in, but they better REALLY like each other. There was a gay Lego joke at some point and I will let you ponder that one.

Anyway, they were free and we all managed. IronMan had won a camping set on a Roll-Up the Rim cup and while we could at least stand in it, I don’t know where you would put six people.

The weekend had called for rain, but we did not get a drop. The weather was great, but the sunsets spectacular. Friday night’s especially put on quite a show. And the stars, that is one thing you don’t get to see living in the city. The nine year old girl with her two ferrets crawling around under the picnic table we were at was a little off putting, but added a certain something to the evening.

Her father finally called here away saying ‘teenagers don’t come out in the dark to chat with 9 year olds’. Clearly it was very dark if he thought those seated at the table were teenagers. 20 somethings yes, but teenagers? Even I don’t buy that. We must have been giving off a youthful energy.

Our first night’s sleep was repeatedly disturbed by rude latecomers that were chatting, rather loudly I must say, until the wee hours of the morning. It wasn’t until I gratefully heard Kitkat say “it’s 3:00 AM, do you mind if people in this park get some sleep?” that silence instantly fell over the camp and we could all nod off. Unlike one of the Harry Potter movies we saw where Kitkat told a group of teenagers to “shut the fuck up”, it was very restrained of hit to speak like that. He must have been tired.

The next morning, rain did look imminent, so we packed ourselves into the cars and headed to Picton. We stopped a several junk/antique (depending on your point-of-view) markets on the way and had lunch at Buddha Dog. They serve mini hotdogs, on mini buns with yummy locally sourced condiments.

Service was indeed slow, but we all chatted about our fond Pop Shoppe memories (the only beverage they had) and chuckled when Fauntleroy talked about his man’s “Boobors” ~ his cute name for his ample chest. I also found a country house in the local real estate listings. I think 'IronMan's Bike Barn' has a nice ring to it, now I just have some convincing to do!

Not a drop of precipitation fell, and the sun was scorching when we hit the beech. The water was cool, but due to the shallowness, not overly cold.

Our meals, of course, were yummy if basic. There were yummy stuffed potatoes, all sorts of salads, BBQ sausages and super delicious meatloaf sandwiches. Kitkat helped us relive our childhood with those mini cereal boxes. Instead of being lined with wax paper, they now have plastic and that makes it much easier to get into and doesn’t hold the milk any better. IronMan cut right through and soon found milk on his plate. That boy doesn’t know his own strength.

The cool evenings meant next to no mosquitoes and if there were any, Kitkat’s constant fire tending kept them at bay. It also made for pleasant sleeping as the tents did not get overly stuffy.

I have had better sleeps, but have to say I will put it on next year’s activity list. We searched and have compiled a list of our ‘preferred’ spots. We will start booking as soon as the season opens so we don’t miss out!

Neti Pot Learning Curve

2009-09-07T08:36:00.000-07:00

Many entries ago, I talked about a raisin that took a trip in my mouth and out my nose, a journey that took 3 days! No complaining here though, as I now have a party trick, that I can do just about anywhere, as long as I am wearing my necklace. Along with said trick, came a realization about just how the nose and mouth are connected and how you can use that to your advantage for any number of day-to-day activities.

As an allergy sufferer, I soon discovered that sucking water into the nose did a fantastic job cleaning it out and help immensely when it came to allergies. I do this in the shower, so while not the most pleasant image, there is no clean up. Now, I go through half the Kleenex I used to, I can actually smell things from June – September and I no longer need antihistamines.

A while back I heard about how a neti pot could enhanced the effects of my daily routine thanks to the addition of salt and the flowing of water in one nostril and out the other. For $19.99, Himalayan Crystal Salt included, I thought I would give it a go. I could have pick up one for about $5, but given my aversion to plastic, I went with the double decker design porcelain version.

In the bottom, you prepare your saline solution and the top is the pot itself. The directions for the salt were to dissolve as much salt into the water as possible until you see a few bits on the bottom. Each salt ‘crystal’ is about the size of a small apricot and I think I had three in there before I could see residue on the bottom.

Either the instructions were not clear or I don’t follow directions very well, but I am telling you all now, you need to DILUTE FINAL SOLUTION! That much salt in your nose burns like an SOB! It went in easily enough, but trying to get the sting out took a couple hours.

That, plus not having my head tilted just right resulting in a few mouthfuls of salt water, almost made me abandon the pot for my old routine.

My next attempt was much more successful. With warm water and a splash of the salt solution, I docked the neti spout in my nose, tucked my chin towards my shoulder and the water flowed just as I had imagined. Breathing through the mouth was easy, there was no panic and at the half way mark, at least as far as I could determine, I switched sides and drained the pot.

I now neti about every third day, more often if I have been out running or in the garden and know there will be an abundance of pollen up the old nose. If you suffer from allergies at all, I highly recommend giving it a try but don’t expect to look or feel as glamorous as the buxom blond on the front of the box who is actually smiling while she flushes her nose ~ at least not on the first try.

Robert 3, Wasps 1

2009-09-01T04:24:00.000-07:00

I learned a very important lesson this past weekend, Smirnoff Ice and wasps do not mix. IronMan, IronGirl and I headed to Fenelon Falls for a visit with Sauvignon and the kids.

For those of you that have never been, it is very picturesque and with all the rain this year the lake was high and the falls were flowing with full force. After we walked around and visited various little tourist town type shops, we headed to Lake Cameron for a swim.

One of my big fears about doing an IronMan is the swim. What do you do if you are half way out and you panic? Life jackets are not allowed, nor are pool buoys. I know they have people in kayaks that you can go to for help, but what if you don’t make it? I asked IronMan to bring his wetsuit so I could try it as everyone assured me that would keep you afloat. I was sceptical of that however.

Sure enough, you float like a cork in that thing. It has the added bonus of making you look pretty good and the swimming is easy as pie. Okay, well maybe not that easy, but much easier than without it. So I would be comfortable with the swim and the bike, but the run. Yuck. Sunday morning we ran 14 km ~ and it was a beautiful setting; a rail trail along the edge of the lake. No cars, soft underfoot and a cool breeze. Every step of it was so boring. I suppose though, I could walk that part if push came to shove.

Apres dip, we retired to the backyard for some sun and refreshment. Sauvignon showed us a HUGE wasp’s nest that is growing, quite literally, on the side of her house. Part of it covers a window so from the dining room you can actually see inside! Having recently taken care of a nest for the Girls in the Dollhouse with a can of foam that sprays from a good distance, I offered to take this one down too.

My dad also had to get rid of one this year, but not one for chemicals, he got out his shop-vac and stood next to it, patiently sucking each one as it came or went to or from the next. “I only got stung three times” he boasted.

I can say, in retrospect, that fortunately, her neighbour said he would take of it for her so I was off the hook. Still, I felt obligated to do my part.

After I finished my Smirnoff Ice, I lay across a deck chair with the bottle on my belly. I noticed a wasp buzzing around the opening and finally giving into temptation to get at the last little bit of sweetness still inside. Once in, I put on the lid, gave it a little shake and presto, me one, wasps zero.

Now I don’t know if it was the sweetness or the death of one of their brethren, but let’s just say numerous wasps become interested in my bottle. I managed to catch two more, at once thank you very much, before everyone said they were going in because there were now way too many buzzing around and I was asking for trouble.

At one point, as I patiently waited for my victims, I guess one must have crawled up my shirt-sleeve under my arm. As I picked up the cushion from the chair and tucked it under my arm, a black and yellow scored one for the other team.

It didn’t hurt nearly as much as I thought it would and the initial bite was definitely not the worst part. Now, three days later, it is itchy as all get out. I try to gently rub rather than scratch, but it is hard to resist. Dad tells me I can expect that to last about a week. In the end, I guess I got what I deserved.