My Earliest Memory

When I was about three years old, I had a double hernia operation.
I have snippets of memory. Vignettes.

I remember the doctor coming and taking off the bandages.
Ouch.

I remember having scrambled eggs for breakfast one day.
They were a little runny.

I remember Auntie Rose and Uncle Moe came to visit me.
They brought me a toy.
It was a monkey hanging from a wire.
Push the buttons and the monkey flipped over the wire.
Funny monkey.

I remember the blue cart I pedalled around.
Weeeee!

I remember the boy in the room next door.
His leg was in a cast.
It was suspended from a triangle in the ceiling.
I visited him and sang to him and kept him company.

What I don't remember, but what my mother will tell you, is that I didn't want to leave the hospital. In fact, I made such a fuss when it came time to go home that the nurses said it was no problem to leave me there another day or so. I was a joy to have around; they were more than happy to let me stay.
Isn't that just nauseating?

So I got to stay in the hospital a couple more days.
Play with new toys.
Make new friends.


(Thanks to One-Minute Writer for today's inspiration!)

Tic Toc

I just had a moment of panic.

I glanced at my watch.

It says 9:24 a.m.

WHAT?!!

It's not even 10 yet????

That CAN'T be right!!

Then I looked at my computer.

Oh.

It's 11:27.

My watch has stopped.

*groan*

This day will NEVER end!!!!

The Days Talk Too

The Husband was at work this week, surfing The Weather Network to see how the rest of the week was going to pan out; crossing his fingers for a smooth ride on Christmas Day.

"Looks like Wednesday snow, Thursday clear, Friday snow," he muses.

"What does Saturday say?" asks Millie, a co-worker.

Without missing a beat, The Husband squeaks in a very high-pitched voice:

"Hi! My name's Saturday!"

Joyeux Noël

I can't seem to get into Christmas anymore. I know it’s because my parents and brother live so far away now and I miss them terribly.

I have such great memories of Christmas as a child. As do many French Canadians, we celebrate Christmas Eve. We went to bed early, but my parents would wake us up at midnight to open our gifts. As we got older, we stayed up until midnight. Being allowed to stay up was like a right of passage ... we were allowed to hang out with the grown ups, have a little wine, listen to their stories (which weren’t always edited for content!).

It seemed that everyone congregated at our place. And Mom cooked the best dinner! Turkey, tortiere, mashed potatoes, homemade pickles. After dinner, the adults would play cards, laugh and sing. It was such a happy time.

I remember one year, Alex and I were snuggled in bed, whispering and giggling as little girls do. Suddenly there was a noise outside. We were convinced that Santa was on our roof! We squeezed our eyes shut willing ourselves to fall asleep, because, as every child knows, Santa won't leave any gifts if he knows you're still awake. It must have worked, because I remember getting presents that year.

I miss my family, but I look forward to hopefully spending Christmas with them next year.

Until then, Joyeux Noël et Bonne Année! Je vous aimes beaucoup!

Grumpy Girl

I'm in a really crappy mood today. Ask the girls around me at work. They'll tell you. The F-Word has become a regular adjective and adverb in my vocabulary today.

My mood is really a continuation from Friday.

You'll recall that the GO Train was running late. Well, it took me about five hours to get home, between cancelled trains and delays.

Once I got home, we went to shovel out the inlaws. We didn't get home from that until the wee hours of the morning.

More snow yesterday, which I had to shovel -- TWICE!

This morning capped it all off. Three trains were cancelled this morning. Count them ... 1, 2, 3! I normally get to work at 8. I didn't walk in the door 'till 10. It's a busy week cuz of course everyone and their mother has to wait until the last possible moment to get any legal work done so we're all trying to cram five days' worth of work into two!

The biggest pisser of all?! GO Transit sends out an e-Notice this morning ...

The 7:45 train from Oshawa to Union has been cancelled.

They sent this message at 8:31! Yeah, thanks Tips!

F'n morons!!

A Typical GO Day

We're in the midst of a snow storm. We're expecting at least 20 cm in our area. It has been snowing non-stop since 9 a.m. this morning. It's now 6 p.m.

Needless to say, GO Transit isn't handling this well. I realize that there's a lot of snow on the tracks and we can't control Mother Nature. But let's face it. Any commuter who takes the GO Train on a regular basis -- in particular the Lakeshore Line -- knows that it only takes a sneeze to screw up the system. "Oh oh. There's a little phlegm on the rails. Better shut it down."

GO Transit recently conducted a survey under the false pretence of improving the system. One of their brilliant ideas (my tongue is planted firmly in my cheek) is to be able to see a live view of the departure boards on their website.

Knowing that the trains would be a complete disaster, I logged onto their site.

This is what I saw:

Note that the 16:10 Lakeshore W. train has been delayed to 16:13.

Note that a few lines below that, the 16:13 Lakeshore W. train has been cancelled.

Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that the 16:13 was cancelled because the 16:10 was moved to its slot.

WRONG!

Turns out the 4:10 was moved to 4:13, then subsequently cancelled.

*sigh*

I may or may not get home tonight.

Copious Cupcakes

I've said it before and I'll say it again ... I can't cook. The Husband argues with me and insists it's because I don't try. It's in me, I just won't let it come out.

Well I let it all out last night. With disastrous results.

My mom passed an idiot-proof recipe on to my cousin Alex who passed it on to me.

1. One box of cake mix, made according to box instructions.
2. Add one box of Jello powder. Mix and bake as cupcakes.

Sounds easy right? Apparently not. It may be idiot proof, but it's not Mo-proof.

First, I made the cupcakes with what I thought was vegetable oil, but was really Canola oil. Then I overfilled the cups so I had exploding cupcakes in my oven.

The Husband, God bless him, swears they don't taste as bad as they look.

Spa Day, Yo!

The girls are desperate for spa day. At least Alex and I are. Alex sent me a text message last night.

"January 10 or 24 works for me for spa day. I want a mani, pedi, massage and reflexology. Book it."

Geez! I write back "You're so bossy!" She insists that she would have written more but she ran out of text space.

I giggle at her response, but I'm a little conflicted. Can BJ make it? I share my thoughts with The Husband, about how we never seem to see BJ anymore. "You email her," he says ... and in his best gangsta voice (know that TH is as white as Mayberry!), dictates the message:

"You should get yo baby daddy ta take da shorty fo da weekend so you can hang wit yo home girls. Hope you can come. Don't dis yo posse. Peace out. Word."

I sent the message, but haven't heard anything back yet. Gee, I wonder why??

It's the Most %$#@*& Time of the Year

I absolutely hate the commercialism of Christmas. And so say all of you.

Agonizing over buying pointless gifts for people who won't appreciate them. Spending hours -- nay, days!! -- to create a magnificent meal that is scarfed down in minutes. Spending time with family you don't even like, resulting in feuds akin to the Hatfields and the McCoys.

Do I sound bitter? Of course I do. I'm fed up with it all! This is supposed to be a time of joy, happiness and celebration. Instead, if you dare venture into a mall, everyone (and I mean EVERYONE) is pissed off. Not just cranky or angry. PISSED OFF! There's shoving and pushing and angry swear words. And that's from the retail staff!

But I think I know what the root cause of all this is.

It's the Christmas Carols! The malls start playing these damn things in November. Every friggin' radio station is playing them ... and bragging about it! All carols all the time. Enough already!! We don't need to hear The Cure sing Oh Holy Night.

What amazes me is that despite the radicals who've politically corrected this holiday so that the word Christmas has been officially replaced with Holiday, we still haven't managed to eliminate the Christmas Carols. City Hall must now erect a Holiday Tree. Retailers cannot wish customers a Merry Christmas. Children do not have Christmas Parties at school. So why are we still allowed to play Christmas Carols?

I'm convinced it's because retailers have added subliminal messages to the Christmas Carols so that we'll buy more. I'm sure of it.

Off with my head!

I had called The Husband from our annual Christmas Party (yes, I said Christmas Party!) to say I'd be catching a later train home. He mentioned he made stir fry for dinner and he'd packed some for my lunch the next day. Frantastic and Robilicious made smoochy noises when I hung up. "Awwww! That's so sweet!"

But the truth is, these girls scare me. They've put a price on my head.

It seems that Frantastic and Robilicious have decided that once I pop off, one (or perhaps both) of them will gladly fill my wifely shoes.

I've mentioned this to The Husband many times. He thinks I'm lying. I'm here to tell you, Sweetie, that Fran and Robi both read this blog and I wouldn't put it in writing if it weren't true.

When I got home from the party, I told The Husband that the girls were all mushy over his lunch gesture. He rolled his eyes. "I'm telling you," I insisted, "These girls are going to off me. There better be a police investigation!"

He pulled me into a bear hug. "It just wouldn't be the same," he murmured, giving me a squeeze.

I stepped back.

"I don't know," I said, pouting, "Fran and Robi can both cook."

He smiled wistfully, pulled me back into a hug and said:

"Definitely wouldn't be the same."

Gerry-licious

Robilicious is a huge Gerry Butler fan. HUGE.

She was bragging to The J Meister about how she had snapped some sweet pics when he was in town for the Toronto International Film Festival. Just to prove her point, she emails him the pics. Let's be honest here, these are amazing shots!

Of course, The J Meister questions her ...

JM: Oh man you got close... These weren't taken in the men's washroom were they? Be honest...

Robi: Trust me, if I had followed him into the bathroom, he wouldn't have gotten away!

Watch out Gerry!

C'est Noel

The offices in our firm have frosted glass walls facing the hallway. The purpose, in theory, is to allow natural light to shine through, while still allowing privacy.

Many people write on the glass walls with washable ink and paste those gel decals that are so popular now. As you walk down the halls, you see everyone's personalities shine through, so to speak. Some have drawn stick people and cartoons, written quotations and mathematical equations. There are gel decals of fish, animals and people.

Of course, everyone is now decorating for the Holidays.

One of the Human Resources gals has pasted Ho Ho Ho decals on her wall. However, when she originally pasted them, they were pasted so she could read them from inside her office. So when we walked by her office, this is what we saw:



A few people teased her, saying that it looked funny from the outside.

I pointed out that it was perfectly fine. Head office is in Quebec, after all. Her sign really reads:

'Oh 'Oh 'Oh. 'Appy 'Olidays!

C'est Merry Christmas, n'est pas?

Finding Jesus

We've all heard these stories. It happens every Christmas. People steal the Baby Jesus from the Nativity Scenes in front of Churches and other organizations.

Let me point out here that stealing the Baby Jesus probably ranks pretty high on the Hell-bound sin list. If you think you're going to get away with it, think again. Not just Santa is watching, buddy.

I figure the kidnappers generally fall into one of three categories:

1. The idiots who think it's a great gag and have nothing better to do after a few shots of Jack.
2. The radicals who think that the Baby Jesus shouldn't be there until Christmas Eve and have the need to make a statement.
3. The wing nuts who are anti-everything ... anti-Christian, anti-Christmas, anti-human.

So, in the Spirit of the Season, many churches and organizations are giving the gift of technology and have fitted the Baby Jesus with a GPS tracking device.

Well ... this simplifies things, doesn't it?

Now, when I get the knock on the door and I'm asked "Have you found Jesus?" I will be able to whip out my handy dandy BlackBerry, click on the icon and Voila!

It will certainly be easier than leaving Post-It Notes all over the place, won't it?

No Problem!

I passed a co-worker in the hall earlier today. She was VERY pregnant. It seems to me she just came back from mat leave! I raised my eyebrows at her and glanced knowingly at her stomach.

"Don't you guys have cable?!"

She laughed, "We do!"

"Yeah, but what kind of channels are you getting?" I wondered.

She patted her tummy as she confided "This seems to happen every time we go to Jamaica."

Hmmm ... Note to self. Don't visit Jamaica.

You say potato

At night, the hotel beautifully lit up various palm trees and plants, using rich vibrant colours. It was quite spectacular. Each night, as we returned to our hotel room, we saw this particular scene.

One fully developed palm tree. One naked tree.

The naked palm had me wondering.

"What do you think happened?" I asked The Husband. "Isn't it odd that these two palm trees are side by side, yet one is clearly stripped of all its leaves. If it was a strong wind, wouldn't both of them be naked? If it's dead, wouldn't the staff cut it down?"

In his best French Canadian accent, he turns to me and says "Per'aps it eez a Palm de Tear."

groan

"Get it? Like pomme de terre!"

"Yeah, I got it. Keep walking."

Back on the Wagon

There should be a 12-step program for people coming back from vacation.

Too much food. Waaaay too much drink!

It wasn't long before The Husband and I established a routine: Breakfast at 8 am. Cappuccino with a double shot of Baileys at 9. Tequila shots at 10. A continuous string of fruity drinks until Noon. Cervezas with lunch. More drinks until dinner. Vino blanco and vino rojo with dinner. More drinks at the show.

And the food. Ooooh the food! Not that I ate many sweets. Au contraire, mon frère. It's that I ate too much guacamole. Or at least that's what I thought it was at first. I heaped mounds of guacamole (I love guac!) onto my tortilla, with salsa and fried onions. I took two very healthy bites before I realized that my mouth is on fire. My lips were swollen to three times their normal size. There was a charred path going from my tongue, down my esophagus to my intestines. Smoke was coming out my ears. My eyes began to water. Then The Husband pointed out to me that it wasn't guacamole, it was some sort of green Let's-burn-the-Touristos' sauce. Me and the porcelain gods were well acquainted that day.

I'm attending my first Vacationer's Anonymous meeting tomorrow. "Hello, my name is Mo, and I've been on vacation."

Happy Dance!

I'm leeeeeeeevin' on a jet plane. Don't know when I'll be back again.

Well, I suppose that's not exactly true. I'll be back next Friday. But I could stay in Mexico if I wanted to. Oh, who am I kidding. I'll be back next week. Crap.

We leave tomorrow for the beautiful Grand Sirenis Riviera Maya resort. I can already feel the warm sun on my skin; hear the waves wash against the shore; taste the fruity cold drinks slide down my throat ... Aaaaah! Paradise!!

I will think of you, my faithful readers, with each sip of my margarita.

Cheers!!

WWJD??

I found this Post-It note on the driver's side window of my car, right above the door handle so I couldn't miss it:



Hmmph!

I pulled the post-it from my window and went back in the house. I called The Husband who was already at work.

Me: "Did you have a note on your car when you left today?"

TH: "What??"


Me: "There was a note on my car this morning."


TH: "What did it say?"


Me: "You Need Jesus."


TH: "To do what, exactly?!"


Me: "I'm not sure."


TH: "Well, who left it?"


Me: "I dunno. God maybe?"

Same Thing, Only Different

The countdown is on. Three more sleeps until we leave for Mexico! WOO HOO!!

While we were at the wedding on Saturday, I leaned over to The Husband. "One more week," I whispered.

He looked at his watch. "Know what we'll be doing this time next week?" he asked. I grinned, my mind wandering to beaches and fruity umbrella-laden drinks.

The Husband looks around. "We'll be listening to music, in a room with hundreds of people we don't know, lining up for a dinner buffet. Essentially, we'll be doing the exact same thing."

Ha!

"Only we'll be wearing Bermuda shorts," he added, with a shrug.

New Ties / Old Ties

I attended my cousin's wedding on Saturday. Although we missed the ceremony, the reception was a lot of fun. Everyone had a great time.

Before heading out to the reception, however, my Mom mentioned that there was supposed to be a surprise guest there. The surprise was for my Dad. My Dad loves surprises and hadn't pressed anyone for information, so the anticipation was building.

As with most weddings, when we arrived, there were hugs and kisses from relatives we hadn't seen in a while. Dad held back catching up with a few friends and Mom and I wandered into the hall. As we entered the room, the evening's entertainment was conducting a sound check. Suddenly this velvety voice began singing. I stopped, dumbstruck. Wow! His voice was like buttah!!

Mom leans over to me and says "That's your Dad's surprise."

What? This guy?

I looked back as my Aunt was escorting Dad into the hall; they're both laughing. Then she points towards the singer and Dad turns to look.

It was priceless. His mouth fell open, his facial expression ranges from shock, to surprise, to utter joy. And he begins to tear up.

"Who is he?" I ask Mom.

"John Morello."

OH!! I had heard stories my entire childhood about the guys at the warehouse where my dad used to work. Dad talked about John Morello a lot. How he often broke out in song at the warehouse, entertaining his co-workers. Dad, and everyone else, always said that John was wasting his time at the warehouse. I guess he finally got the message and is now, as they say, singing for his supper.

My heart swelled to see Dad so happy. John seemed to serenade Dad the whole night, interjecting the odd exclamation of "Frenchy" into his songs.

And all the way home, Dad kept exclaiming in an awed tone "John Morello!" while shaking his head.

That's Hot Baby!

I recently changed jobs. Departments really. I now work with some pretty crazy people. Coming to work is fun.

More often than not, one of us will have a craving for something and, in the spirit of sisterhood, the others will follow.

Yesterday, Frantastic had a craving, announced that she was going to McDonalds for Flap Jacks and promptly re-named yesterday Jeudi Gras.

I didn't feel like Flap Jacks, but got the Cinnamon Melts. OMG!! This is Heaven!!

The bottom right hand corner caught my eye.



Is the caution a reference to the Cinnamon Melts or was someone in Marketing feeling a little frisky one day?

Biker Bombshell

It's important to look cool when riding your motorcycle. Jeans, t-shirt, hot leather jacket. Chaps if it's cold.

The cool factor is the most important thing about riding. But once in a while, one has a momentary lapse in coolness.

Case in point ...

My friend Kerry is out riding with her boyfriend Rob. It's a cool day, end of the season, the wind is drying and chapping their lips. Their ultimate destination is a shopping mall where Kerry has a hair appointment. In their meandering, they've lost track of time and are now running late. They arrive at the mall. Kerry gets off the bike and heads towards the mall. "Wait!" calls Rob. "Give me your chapstick. My lips are killing me!" She digs in her pocket and tosses him the chap stick, then runs into the mall.

Rob does what we all do when our lips are chapped and liberally slathers chapstick all over his lips, generously applying all around the outside too.

Don't get ahead of me here, wait for it.

Now, you have to picture Rob. He looks like a biker. Big leather jacket, chaps, boots, skull cap, goatee. He gets off the bike and saunters into the mall, stopping here and there killing time while he waits for Kerry. When he gets to the salon to see how she's doing, Kerry bursts out laughing. He frowns. "What?!" She turns him towards the mirror and Rob is mortified. Unbeknownst to him, Kerry passed him her tinted chapstick and he now has Cherry Blaster smeared all over his mouth. He looks like a biker drag queen bag lady.

"No wonder people were staring and snickering!" he says.

No wonder, Rob, No wonder.

Biker Babe

I am married to a serious James Bond fan. I have seen every James Bond film at least three times.

There are valuable life lessons to be learned from these films.

For instance, at any given moment, you may be attacked by an evil world conqueror. In your water- and wrinkle-proof tuxedo, you will have to cleverly devise a means of escape. But you will only have two options: either slip into your scuba gear that miraculously folds into a 1" square which is now stashed in your breast pocket, or jump onto the motorcycle that is conveniently abandoned steps away from you.

With this in mind, a few years ago I decided to get my motorcycle licence. Besides, I was getting a little tired of sitting on the back of the bike. The back of The Husband's helmet just doesn't do it for me.

So I took the course. One of the ridiculous things they make you do is maneuver your bike around a tight 45° angle. Anyone who rides knows that you can't make your bike turn unless it's actually moving. But I couldn't give it gas otherwise I would have toppled the pylons. As I'm trying to make this corner, the bike wobbles. My boot gets caught on the spikes of the foot pedal and I can't stabilize myself. I begin to tip and can't get my leg out to stop myself from falling. Just as I fall with the bike between my legs, my foot comes loose and my ankle is crushed between the pavement and the bike pedal.

Ouch!

We were being tested later that day. Needless to say, I failed the test. BY ONE FRICKN' POINT!! AARRRRRRGH!!!!

Sigh. So I went back the next week and re-tested. And passed! I am now the proud owner of a 535 Virago. Ain't she sweet?!

Next on the Bond List ... scuba lessons!

Check your mail

Coming home late from an event downtown, we took the subway home. Arriving at Wilson Station, The Husband decides he should visit the loo before taking the bus home.

So I wait on the bench outside while he goes in.

Not 5 seconds later he comes racing out of the bathroom, skidding to a stop a few feet away. He looks up at the signs, looks over at me, hangs his head and goes into the other door.

I look up at the signs. Women. Ha!

When he came out, I was still giggling. He sheepishly explains "I noticed that there weren't any urinals, but I didn't think anything of it. Figured maybe it was some new concept the TTC was trying. Who knows, right? So I go in a stall. Then I see the mail box. This isn't right!"

Let's hope Canada Post doesn't deliver there.

Don't Believe Everything You Read

I organized a craft show that was held on Saturday. It was the first craft show I had ever participated in, let alone organized. Talk about blindly jumping in! Despite my inexperience, it turned out to be quite successful. So much so that the other Crafters agreed to participate in a Spring Craft Sale. Needless to say, I'm quite pleased with myself.

However, there was a small glitch.

I received a frantic voice mail message Friday morning. "Hi, Mo? It's Chris at the Ajax Community Centre. You need to call me right away!"

All sorts of things were going through my head ... The room was no longer available. They mixed up the date. The community centre burned down.

So I called him back.

"Listen," he says. "Do you have a sign on the lawn on Harwood?"

"Yes."

"Some of the neighbourhood kids have re-arranged the letters on your sign."

Oh-Oh.

"And you're now advertising for an Anal Sex Show."

Oh crap!

After my fit of laughter, I called Michael the sign guy and told him what happened. He was mortified and said he was right around the corner and he'd go over right away and fix the sign. I'm kicking myself that I didn't get a picture of it! I mean, really, that's quite creative!

Alex was at the show and says she saw two young single guys walk in and look around. She said by the looks on their faces, they were really confused. They looked at each other, frowned, shook their heads in a "this ain't it" sorta way and walked out.

The Husband pointed out that at least we know the money we spent on the sign wasn't wasted. Advertising works!

Got Milk???

Frantastic found this on a blog and sent it to me.

She posed the question:

"I don't drink milk. Can anyone confirm this?"

Anyone? Anyone?? Bueller???

Lest We Forget

Stories of battles fought and won,
Yet so many more are left unsung.

Who are you that gave your life me?
For my freedom, my rights, my liberty?

My thanks to you, who I've never met.
I promise you I will never forget.

Will Wonders Never Cease?

I witnessed a miracle today.

I firmly believe in miracles. Miracles come in many forms. Some small, some large. It's the small miracles that usually go unnoticed. The ones that are chalked up as being coincidence or fate. Like catching your bus in the nick of time, or having the line go fast at the coffee shop.

The big ones are almost always noticed. Not everyone acknowledges them as being miracles, but you certainly appreciate that something special happened. Like the birth of a child, or surviving an accident.

I have witnessed some amazing miracles in my life. In fact, my father will tell you I am a miracle. To begin with, my mother was in a horrific head-on collision when she was a teenager. She was the only survivor, but wasn't expected to live. She surprised everyone. Later, she was told she'd never have children. She surprised everyone -- twice, in fact. And when I was a few months old, my father will tell you the story of when he was holding me. I stopped breathing, turning blue. He gently shook me and I began breathing again. My father believes in miracles too.

But the miracle I witnessed this morning will probably never happen again. I have heard tell of these things happening to others, but no one I personally know has ever experienced it. I thought it was an Urban Legend until today.

What is this miracle of miracles, you ask?

This morning, The Husband changed the toilet paper roll.

Hallelujah!

Rock-a-Bye Poultry

Dad owns a hobby farm in Alban. A tiny, sleepy town about 45 minutes south of Sudbury. The Farm used to have cattle, sheep, rabbits and chickens. On our way home from a camping trip one year, we stopped in for a surprise visit. Dad wasn't home, but we slipped on some rubber boots and took the kids for a tour of the barnyard.

As we walked through the barn, The Girl spies a dead chicken on a bench. She looks up at her father, her big doe eyes pleading, questioning. "What's the chicken doing, Daddy?"

I close my eyes. Oh man. I wasn't prepared to explain the cycle of life to a four-year old. Please God, I'm thinking, give me the right words to say so that I don't traumatize this child for life. I had visions of The Girl running screaming from the barn and vowing to never eat chicken again.

The Husband doesn't hesitate. He presses a finger to his lips and whispers "Shhhh. The chicken is sleeping." The Girl's eyes widen. "Oh!" she whispers loudly. And pressing a finger to her own lips, she begins to tiptoe out of the barn, pulling her father who is tiptoeing behind her.

This is a Test. I repeat ... This is a Test.

OK. I really have nothing to blog about right now. But it's driving me crazy that I can't seem to get the previous post to have the ability to accept comments. I'm thinking it may have to do with the link.

So to test it, I'm going to share with you my favourite commercial.




I'm gonna post and see what happens ...

IT WORKS! Phew!

Does this commercial bug anyone else?




The part that makes me really Grrrrrr is when Julia calmly says "But I called my mom and she said try OxiClean."

First of all, she's smiling while she tells this story. Clearly she's on some serious medication because I don't know any woman who would be smiling about the fact that her Ritalin-deprived child was running through the house WITH MUDDY SHOES! I know that if I did that, I would have been beaten to within an inch of my life.

Second, if I called my mom and told her the kids had run through the house with muddy shoes and jumped on the bed, she wouldn't calmly tell me to use OxiClean. She'd tell me to beat those kids to a pulp and make THEM clean up the mess. And you can bet that the next time the kids visited Memere, she'd lecture them.

I guess my commercial will be filmed from prison.

Witches and Poodles and Dragons ... oh my!!

Halloween was a blast! We had 63 kids trick-or-treating at our house.

Each time someone knocked at the door, Puppy would growl and bark. I don't know why because the moment I opened the door, he'd press his ears back and slowly back away from the monsters. You see, being a retired racing greyhound, Puppy isn't used to anyone shorter than him so he's scared of children.

It didn't help when the cutest little munchkin dressed up like a furry blue duck came toddling up the driveway. I saw him coming so I opened the door. He smiled up at me with the fattest little cheeks (I just wanted to squeeeeeeze them!!).

Then he spies the dog.

"PUPPY!!" he squeals. And fearlessly launches himself at Puppy, clinging to his neck. Puppy doesn't know what to do and very slowly starts to back up, dragging this kid with him. The parents are laughing, I'm laughing, the little duck is laughing. Everyone's laughing except Puppy. Poor guy.

A few more trick-or-treaters later and a Witch, a Poodle and a Dragon show up at the door. The Witch starts babbling away to me, but I don't recognize her. Then her mother comes up the walk. It's the family two doors down. Puppy sees the girls all the time when we go for a walk, but he doesn't seem to recognize the Witch either and there's no way he's getting close enough to smell her! She reaches out to pet him, but he backs away. "It's OK, Puppy!" she croons. "It's a little girl under here. Look!" She whips off her Witch hat. "It's me, Leah!" Puppy immediately recognizes her and happily trots over for kisses.

What a suck!

Happy Halloween

Happy Halloween everyone! I love Halloween. I especially love shelling out candy and seeing all the little kiddies in their costumes.

I carved our Jack-o-Lantern last night:

The Husband and I have a serious candy debate each year. Which candies do we want to buy? More importantly, which candies will we eat because we haven't given them all out. I don't know why we have so many leftovers. I'm sure it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that we buy enough to distribute to 120 kids, when we know full well we only get about 60.

As much as I'd like to dress up to shell out, I just don't have the time or, to be more honest, the energy. It's not the dressing up that tires me out, it's the de-costuming. Remove the outfit, wash off any face/body paint, fix the hair. I can't be bothered anymore.

But I have seen some amazing costumes in my time.

I've seen a group of six people dressed as a six-pack of beer. They were all dressed in brown outfits, with tin plates squished on their heads. And when they walked around, they walked in a group within a cardboard box realistically labeled as Labatt's Blue.

In high school, a couple of guys dressed up in white leotards from head to toe. They had hoola hoops around their waists with white stalkings covering them over the hoops from their necks to their thighs so that they looked like giant tear drops. They approached everyone. "Touch us!" And they felt all slimy. "Ewww! What are you supposed to be?!" "Sperm!!" they yelled.

My hairdresser was telling me about a couples' costume she saw. When you looked at them it didn't make any sense at all. One was dressed as a hippie and one was dressed as a mime. Huh?! But when asked, they said they were Peace and Quiet. Brilliant!

By far, the best costume I've seen was when The Husband and I were on a cruise. Halloween was on the third day of our cruise and there was a contest for anyone who had brought a costume. I was surprised and impressed with the number of people who brought costumes. Participants lined up on stage, the MC asked everyone their names and what their costume was and we, the audience, applauded for the results. The MC arrives at a couple whose costumes were not obvious. There's a murmur in the crowd as we're trying to figure it out. They are both wearing what appears to be dark brown burlap sacks. He is wearing horns. She has a halo and a humongous cross necklace. I turn to The Husband. "I don't get it." He shrugs. "Me neither."

The MC walks over to the couple and you can tell he is equally puzzled. "Soooo ... what are you supposed to be?" The man leans into the microphone. "I'm Bull Shit and (pointing to his wife) this is Holy Shit." Everyone burst out laughing, applauding like crazy and gave them a standing ovation.

The Mystery of the Disappearing TP

I discovered a new blog site and commented on one of her posts (my apologies and thanks for stealing your idea Moosh!). Which got me thinking ...

It has become a family joke that I always ... and I mean ALWAYS ... have to change the tp roll wherever I go. It doesn't matter where I am. Visiting friends and family. Public washrooms. Hotels. Wherever. The roll is always down to a few squares when I sit down to do my bizness.

I am TP Girl! I'm thinking of getting a cape. Da dada daaaaa!! Maybe BJ will bedazzle a TP logo onto it for me.

I had to change the tp roll at home several days in a row. Every time I sat down, the roll needed changing. I started to get concerned that there was something wrong with The Husband. I mean, really, I put on a fresh tp roll and the very next day it needs changing? Clearly the man is eating too much fibre! This went on for about three or four days. New roll, next day, tp gone.

So I figure I need to have a chat with The Husband.

Me: "Um. Hun ... Are you ok?"
TH: "What??"
Me: "Well, it's just that we've been going through a lot of toilet paper lately and if you're not feeling well ..."

I can't finish the sentence because he's laughing hysterically now.

"I've been replacing the roll with an empty one!" More laughter.

*sigh* And my friends wonder why I'm in therapy.

The Nose Knows

I decided to get new glasses and, hey, while I'm at it, might as well update my prescription. So I saw the Optometrist last night who said all is well, other than the astigmatism in my left eye. He gave me a prescription that will sharpen things. Hmmm ... maybe I won't wear my new glasses when I look at myself in the mirror. No sense in seeing all those bumps and lumps in focus now, is there?!

The Husband and I trot over to LensCrafters to pick out new frames. He picked out some frames that were a little funky. I hesitated. "You'll look great in these," he says. "You're French Canadian, you can get away with this."

He may be right. I was in Sudbury last weekend visiting my parents. I noticed that all the girls are wearing these glasses. They all have long beautiful hair and fabulous outfits.

"And they all seem to have big noses," I point out to The Husband. I critically peer at myself in the mirror. "Do I have a big nose?"

The Husband looks at me, cocks his head slightly, and says "No ... not relative to the rest of you."

He's a pooh head! I smacked him and we laughed. He said it knowing that I'd know he was joking. But he's still a pooh head.

Smile ... you're on Candid Robbery!

The latest brain wave by our fine city is to encourage gun owners to turn in their guns in exchange for a digital camera. Henry's will provide one of two digital cameras to anyone who hands over a gun - legal or otherwise. The bigger the gun, the better the camera. I can almost hear the barker at the CNE. Step right up, folks! Step right up! Ya pays your gun, ya gets yer camera!!

The Husband and I were getting ready for work this morning when this was announced on Breakfast Television. At the end of the pitch, the announcer emphasized that "people are asked NOT to bring their guns to Henry's. Rather, please contact ..."

"Knew that was coming!" says The Husband, laughing. "Can you just picture some schmuck showing up at Henry's with his gun cuz he doesn't want to deal with the police? The staff at Henry's will be impressed. Hey! If you do it right, you could get a free camera AND still keep your gun!"

Mmmm .... Mmmm .... Ouch!

Nephew #1 is home convalescing. His foot is injured so badly that he has to stay off it and keep it elevated. His toenail has turned black. The doctor had to drill a hole and drain it. It is now infected and there is stuff oozing out of it. His mother wants to know if I want to take Nephew #1 home with me. Ewwwww! Gross!! NO! This is why I'm the Aunt and you're the Mom.

Nephew #1 is telling everyone that he kicked a robber in the head. The girls at school are swooning all over him and sending goo goo text messages. Smart kid.

Of course, that's not what happened. What really happened is that he dropped a can of Campbell's Soup on his foot. Nephew #1 jokes that he now wants to sue Campbells. He may actually have something here. I mean, really, we all know about the McDonald's Lawsuit.

Some moron goes through the drive-thru and orders coffee. Coffee = hot. We all know this. This woman places the hot coffee between her legs so that she can add cream and sugar. In doing so, she spills the coffee (duh!!) and suffers serious burns. A jury awards her in excess of $2.5 million dollars. It is later settled for a lower undisclosed amount. A jury decides that she is only 20% responsible for her burns due to her actions.

20%?!! How about 100%?! How many times before this incident and, perhaps afterwards, did this idiot successfully drink coffee without burning herself. Could the fact that she burned herself be a direct result of her actions? Methinks yes. McDonalds serves billions -- BILLIONS -- of coffees every single day. Why don't we hear about billions of people burning their hoo hoos willy nilly all over the country? Because they don't. And yet, a jury has set a precedent that allows irresponsible people to blame corporate America for their stupidity and get paid handsomely for it.

So Nephew #1 wants to sue Campbells. I say go for it. He has a good argument. Nowhere on the label does Campbells forewarn the consumer that dropping the can on your foot may be harmful. I'm sure an argument can be made that Nephew #1 is only 20% responsible for his injuries. Studies could be made to determine whether Campbell's soup cans are heavier than their competitors', thereby increasing the risk of injury. Perhaps the can itself is faulty. Oh, the arguments that could be made -- how delicious! (no pun intended, of course.)

Anyone know a good lawyer?

Pet Peeve #3 - The BMW Theory

I have been driving for more than 25 years now. Using my turn signal is as natural as breathing for me. In fact, when I move around the idiot who insists on driving like a little old lady in the left lane and purposely don't use my signal when I cut in front of him, I feel a little awkward. Not because I cut him off, mind you, but because I didn't use my signal.

Would it kill you to turn your signal on people? One flick. Up for right. Down for left. Easy peezy. And it even shuts off on its own. Genius!

In my 25 years of driving, I have noticed something. You must have noticed this too. When driving behind someone in a BMW, they never EVER use their turn signal. I don't know what it is, but I have yet to drive behind a Beemer that has a turn signal on when it makes a turn or lane change.

So I have come to a conclusion:

The Turn Signal Package is an option in BMWs. Not only is it an option, but this option is so expensive that it precludes the owner from purchasing it. Even after-market packages are too pricey.

This must be the reason. I mean really, they can't all be ignorant asses, can they?

Not just a gap

As is often the case, once you reach a Certain Age, you begin to have When I Was A Kid conversations. So, upholding tradition, we were comparing notes on teenage pregnancy when we were in high school. We all knew at least one girl that was pregnant in high school.

I went to a Catholic High School, so having a pregnant, kilted teen was probably not the example the YCDSB wanted to set. The girl I knew was asked to leave once she began showing, even though everyone knew she was pregnant.

In turn, the response was the same.

"Me too."
"The girls were asked to leave."
"Yeah, no way were they staying!"

Then the youngest in the group pipes up, looking like we're all speaking a foreign language: "My school had a daycare in it!"

And that, my friends, is the chasm we call The Generation Gap.

Pet Peeve #2C - Hush Now, Voices Carry

Why some people even bother to have cell phones is beyond me. These Talkers are speaking so loudly that I'm sure everyone within a five mile radius can hear them. No phone necessary.

For the love of God, people, use your Inside Voice when talking on your cell phones. The speakers on cell phones are quite powerful and the person on the other end of the line can hear you just fine. If they can't hear you, it's more likely a signal problem. Shouting "Can you hear me now?!" louder and louder is not going to make the signal any clearer.

Not everyone needs to know your business either. Loud and personal calls made in public are both annoying and a breach of privacy. I'm sure that the person you are bitching about wouldn't appreciate you airing out their dirty laundry.

Case in point:

I was on the GO Train. Sitting in my quad were three other women, plus a fifth woman sitting in the quad across the aisle. The woman (not a teenager, but someone in her late 20s) sitting across from me immediately flips open her phone and starts talking -- VERY LOUDLY -- about Tyler.

I don't know who Tyler is, but he invited his girlfriend to this party last weekend and Sarah was really pissed off cuz she's Tyler's ex and the new chick is creating drama for everyone cuz no one likes her and Tyler's just parading her in front of everyone and now Sarah's not talking to Amanda cuz Amanda said she kinda liked the new chick and What The Hell Is Up With That doesn't she realize that Tyler's an asshole and he's going to bring this new broad to his parent's house for Thanksgiving and what about the cottage is everyone there going to get along cuz if everyone's going to just fight then it's going to be a disaster ...

The three other women and I were all trying to read. It was as though we all telepathically sent a message to each other. We all glanced up and gave each other the eye. All three of us sighed very loudly, made a big production of closing our books, slapping them down on our laps and all stared up at the ceiling until this stupid woman was done her conversation. Every once in a while one of us would let out an audible sigh. 15 minutes we sat there. 15 minutes I tell you! People were looking over their shoulders to see who was making so much noise. She didn't get the hint.

And this happens Every. Single. Day.

I just want to walk up to these stupid people, yank the phone out of their hands and shout "STOP IT! Stop It! Stop It! Stop It!" Like that crazy flight attendant in the Nicoderm commercial.



I know exactly how she feels and I don't even smoke!

I probably should start drinking, though.

More.

Pet Peeve #2B - Shut Up and Drive!

I have walked behind countless people in shopping malls or on the sidewalk while they are talking on the phone. These talkers are weaving like drunken sailors and bumping into other pedestrians. People are swerving out of their way to avoid colliding into them. The talkers often stop suddenly to get their bearings, gazing about with a look of wonder that clearly says 'How did I get here?'

You can't even walk and talk on the phone. What the hell makes you think you can DRIVE and talk on the phone?!

I know there are times when you need to make or take a call. I've done it. But having an entire conversation while driving is not appropriate.

Make the call that tells your spouse/boss/children that you're running late, but make it quick and hang up. Don't call your friends to pontificate on the meaning of life or chatter on about the great sale you were at last week. Don't call clients to close that big deal.

Besides, if you want to properly gossip with your girlfriends, then you really should have a good glass of wine or a martini in your hand! And I'm pretty sure there's a law or two against doing that while driving.

Pet Peeve #2A - It's not a disco!

If your cell phone can play Beethoven's Fifth Symphony or whatever the latest top 10 pop hit happens to be, then it can also vibrate.

Put the damn thing on vibrate!!

No one wants to hear your kitchy phone ring. It's rude, annoying and, most of all, makes you look like an idiot. Believe me when I tell you that no one over the age of 17 should have a cell phone ring that announces they're bringing sexy back.

Don't let it ring three or four times because you think that it's fun or that everyone else wants to dance along with you. We don't. You're just pissing us all off.

If you insist on being a mobile DJ, then at least have the courtesy to put your phone on vibrate while in public. It's like being at a flippin' disco some days on the GO Train with everyone's cell phone playing various tunes!

If you want to listen to music, listen to your iPod or MP3. Which I also have issues with, but I'll save that for another post.

Pet Peeve #1 - Basic Manners

We hear all the time how polite Canadians are. I don't know how they arrived at this conclusion, but whoever they are interviewing is clearly not meeting the same ignorant people that I do. Every. Single. Day.

Two words people: Please. Thank you.

OK. That's technically three words, but you know what I mean.

What happened to saying Please at the end of a request? Or Thank You when something is done for you? My father would cuff me on the back of the head if I didn't say Please and Thank You. It is so habitual for me that I don't even think about it. Even when I go to Starbucks I say Please. "A grande, skinny, vanilla latte, Please". And when I receive my latte, I always say Thank You. Heck, I even throw in a smile! Why not?! Protocol be damned!

What really pisses me off is when you obviously do something for someone (that you didn't have to do in the first place) and they don't even look at you, let alone acknowledge you with a smile and a Thank You. I can't tell you how many times I've held the door open for someone and they've just walked through and not even glanced my way. So I've started loudly saying "You're Welcome!" as they pass through. This usually embarrasses them into saying Thank You. I just raise my eyebrows and give them my best you're-an-idiot look.

So spread the word (or words, rather) that manners are back. Say 'Yes, Please' and 'No, Thank You'. And smile a little.

Please ... and Thank You.

Fourth Floor ... Home Decor ...

It was my father's birthday and we were all convening at my parents' apartment for a birthday feast. The Husband wasn't feeling well. Slight fever, glassy eyes and general malaise. But he insisted on coming. "We don't see your parents often and I should go. Besides, your mom is making crème brulée." This is The Husband's favourite dessert and my mother makes it for him every time he comes over. There's no question she loves him more than me. So I drugged The Husband and took him with me to visit my parents.

I guide him into the elevator at my parents' building. He sways a little and I catch him before he tips over. I'm beginning to think this was a bad idea. I reach around him and push the button for my parents' floor. The doors open and I turn left, walking to the first apartment which is my parents' unit. They usually leave the door unlocked so I give a quick rap on the door and open it.

I should have clued in right away but, as you've all figured out by now, I'm a few sandwiches short of a picnic.

I swing open the door and I immediately notice that they have new furniture. "Lovely!" And they've changed the wallpaper border. And look, the curtains are different. "Aren't those nice?" I say to The Husband. From the front hall, you can peer through the kitchen into the dining room and I see that there are people sitting at the dining room table. They have company, I think to myself. Who would be visiting? Everyone we know lives in Sudbury. Then a couple of the people get up from the table and come over to us. I give my best "company smile" and get ready to greet my parents' friends ... then it suddenly hits me.

I have the wrong apartment.

OH. MY. GOD!

The last two minutes suddenly start flashing through my mind. Instead of pushing the floor for my parents' apartment, I had pressed four, which is the floor we live on. Not six, where my parents live.

The people in 407 are smiling at this point, because they've already clued in to my mistake. And we all start laughing. Except The Husband, who is looking very confused. I apologize profusely, telling them my mistake. They laugh, saying it's no problem "Nice to meet you!"

As I'm guiding The Husband back to the elevator, he asks "We're not staying for dinner?"

My Apologies to Julia Child

I can't cook. There. I said it.

I'm not sure why The Husband married me, but I do know why I married him.

I made him dinner for our first date. I thought I'd try something new and make deep-fried ravioli as an appetizer. My thinking was that the ravioli would cook in the hot oil and therefore it didn't need to be boiled first. So, in my infinite wisdom, I plopped raw, frozen ravioli into the oil and deep-fried it.

They looked lovely. Really! I arranged them all pretty on a plate with a small dish of marinara sauce for dipping. The Husband is all excited. He's a born-again bachelor and hasn't had a home-cooked meal in a while. He's really looking forward to this. "Looks great!" he exclaims, and digs right in.

To his credit, his expression didn't change much. He smiled and made the appropriate yummy noises while I watched him enjoy his ravioli. He was obviously making an effort to chew and this started to disturb me. So I had a bite.

It was horrible!

Each ravioli was hard and rubbery. Chewing was a chore and my jaw was aching before I finished the first bite.

I was mortified! Here I am trying to impress this guy and I've made the most inedible, tasteless dinner imaginable. I wanted to crawl under the table and die! I could feel my bottom lip start to tremble. My eyes began to well up with tears. Great! Now I'm going to make it worse and cry.

I jump up and grab the plate, apologizing profusely. "I'm throwing them out." But he laughs. "It's fine!" he says. He takes my hand, pulls the plate from it, sets it down in front of him and ... God bless this man! ... ate every one of those raviolis. "Got any more?" I think I fell in love with him right at that moment.

Our 7-year anniversary is coming up. We're planning to go out for a nice steak dinner.

"Or we could just stay home and have some deep-fried ravioli," he quips.

Holy Sheet!

We had plans to visit the kids one evening. The Husband had the day off and went over early, bringing our laundry with him ... might as well right? I was driving over after work. He phones me at the office.

TH: "Bring the bed sheets with you."

Me: "OK. But leave me a note cuz I know I'll forget."

I walk in the door and there's a note on the hallway mirror: SHEETS in huge letters. Good one. I chuckle.

Still giggling, I go to the washroom (I really gotta pee). On the bathroom vanity: SHEETS. Taped on the toilet seat - SHEETS, on the shower curtain - SHEETS, inside the tub - SHEETS. I'm laughing really hard now and I REALLY gotta pee, so I flip up the toilet lid - SHEETS.

I start wandering through the apartment. On every surface there's a SHEETS sign. The tv, sofa, coffee table, kitchen table, every chair, curtains, windows, bed. Inside cupboard doors, fridge, freezer, microwave, every drawer of my dresser.

For about two weeks I was finding SHEETS signs in random places!

Brown-Eyed Girl

I think I stood in the boob line two or three times when I was created. Some may say this is a blessing. Me ... I think not. It was humiliating as a pre-teen, frustrating as a teen and just down-right angering as an adult.

So I decided to down-size the girls.

I wasn't ashamed or embarrassed about this. In fact, I openly talked about it. Which would invariably make the person I was conversing with quickly glance down, then immediately look back up and make eye contact, glance down, then up, down, up ... blush, smile awkwardly and we'd continue our conversation.

My gay friends sent me the most wonderful bouquet while I was recovering. A beautiful assortment of colourful flowers, with two giant white mums in the centre, on which were pinned pink pipe cleaner nipples and two bandaids! Loved it!!

By far, the best reaction was when I went to see one of my friends. Her brother answered the door, looked me straight in the face and said "Hey! You have brown eyes. I never noticed that before."

Ministry of Health/Law

Came home from work late last night. Puppy was really excited to see me.

I play with him, ruffle his ears and scratch him under his chin (he really likes that). In my best high-pitched-get-the-dog-excited voice I say: "Guess who's coming over Saturday? Aunty Sue is coming over Saturday! Yes she is! Aunty Sue is coming. And what does Aunty Sue always bring? Cookies!! Yes she does! Yes she does!"

The Husband mutters, "Sounds like a litigation vaccination."

"WHAT??!" (you know, some days it's really hard to keep up with the voices in his head).

"You know ... anti-virus ... anti-sue ... litigation vaccination."

Groan.

And even as I type this, M'Licious is reading over my shoulder. "Are you sure he doesn't smoke dope?"

Good question!

Car fall down, go boom

Back in my Apartment-Dwelling-Days, BJ and I would regularly attend Bingo. She'd pick me up after work and we'd go over to the hall (which was beside the Welfare office by the way!)

On one such evening, BJ shows up and buzzes up to the apartment. "Can you come down? My car died!" And sure enough it had. Right at the entrance to the driveway so that no one could get in or out. We're both frantic. Not only is the car blocking the driveway, but we're going to be late for bingo!! Clearly we have our priorities straight.

I call The Husband on my cell and tell him what's happening. He has me do a few things -- turn the engine ("What does it sound like?"), check the gauges ("Is there gas?"). You know ... guy stuff. All to no avail. I'm panicking now. "What do I do? We're blocking the entrance. People are coming home from work. There's a line up!"

He starts using his Serious Voice and talks to me very slowly and very calmly the way people do when they want to impart something very important without causing panic.

"OK. I want you to listen carefully. Go upstairs to the spare room. You know where I store all the automotive stuff? On the second shelf is a box of rags. I want you to take a rag from the box. Then go to the kitchen and get one of the lighters. (I don't know where he's going with this, but my anxiety level is going up exponentially). Go back downstairs to the car. Do you see where the cap is? (I look. "Driver's side") Good. Carefully unscrew the gas cap. Now take the rag and gently stuff it inside the gas tank. Now, remember the lighter I told you to get? Take the lighter and light the rag on fire (I'm thinking to myself, this seems really dangerous). Now you might want to step back cuz there's gonna be a really big boom."

Before I can ask him "Are you sure??" (don't laugh, I was really going to ask him that! I was thinking this was some kind of radical technique!) he starts laughing.

He's a pooh head!

Get it off me!

We live with what The Husband says are the two dumbest animals on the planet. We seem to have a knack for rescuing the stupid ones. This, of course, makes them a constant source of entertainment.

One night, as we were putting the groceries away, we were throwing the empty bags in a pile to be balled up when we were done. Kitty, being the curious (yet timid) cat that she is, began sniffing all the bags. Following some intriguing scent, she found herself all the way inside one of the plastic bags.

I don't know what triggered it, but she was suddently spooked. All four legs were splayed and the claws were bared. The plastic bag exploded in shreds.

But in her haste to escape, Kitty managed to wrap one of the handles around her head. She was running from room to room, trying to get away from the shredded plastic bag that was flying behind her. No matter where she turned or hid, the evil plastic bag was right there. If she ran faster, the bag only made more noise and chased her more!

The Husband and I were laughing so hard we couldn't even help her.

To this day, if you rustle a plastic bag near her, she'll run and hide under the bed.

Nicole and Richard

Our regular route for walking the dog takes us by a house owned by a nice older German couple who have an old dog named Cody. If they're out, we stop and chat and pet each other's dogs. Puppy is fussed over by the nice lady and gets treats from the nice man.

We stopped last night for a chat. The nice lady was going on and on as she usually does and in her rambling says "I was telling Nicole last night ..." with a vague wave in my direction and carries on with her story. We nod and smile and interject the proper vocal sounds at the appropriate points. It's not easy to get a word in once she gets going.

We finally get on our way. Once we are out of earshot, I lean over to The Husband.

Me: "Who's Nicole??"

TH: "I think that's you."

Me: "I guess Nicole sounds French to Germans."

TH: "Well, growing up, I used to get Richard a lot."

Me: "That's cuz you're a dick."

The E-GO Train

On the way home last night on the GO Train, I sat in my usual car, in my usual quad and continued reading Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets. I'm at a good part, so I was immediately engrossed in the book, lost in the magic of J.K. Rowling.

A very tall, very good looking black man sat in front of me. Shaved head, beautiful brown eyes. We played GO Train Tetris and made room for our legs, but as all GO commuters know, there ain't a whole lotta room.

I continued reading.

I'm not sure how long it went on before I noticed -- I was reading a good book after all -- but Handsome was rubbing my calf with his leg. Very subtly. Slowly, lightly. Up, down.

I glanced up. He smiled. Not an apologetic smile.

A promising smile.

I shifted my leg over a bit. A few minutes later it was happening again. I shifted. He moved. We played this game for a while. Me pretending to read my book, him pretending to be doing this by accident. And every time I looked at him, there was that promising smile. It was both erotic and disturbing.

I pulled out my Blackberry to text Alex. She'll have some advice.

Me: There's a very good looking man sitting in front of me playing footsies. What do I do???

Alex: Play! There's nothing wrong with flirting! (Oh ... good advice Alex!)

Me: He's rubbing my leg!

Alex: That's different! Toes only!! No leg rubbing!!

Me: But he is cute.

Alex: So was Charles Manson!

My stop is coming up and I get ready to leave. As I stand up, I step on his foot (I swear it wasn't on purpose!). Now I'm a touchy, feely sorta person and I reacted to this as I normally do.

I put my hand on his knee and squeezed and said "I'm so sorry!" I know -- WTF?! He smiled that promising smile of his and said "No problem." There was no doubt that this translated to 'You can step on me any time!'

Is it hot in here or is it just me?? Let me tell you that there was a spring in my step all the way home.

Of course, I had to tell The Husband. He laughs, shaking his head, and hugs me. "It's the booty and the new hair colour. See, babe, you still got it!"

My ego is now enormous. We're having architects come to the house today so I can get my head through the door.

Under the "B" ... Boy!!

BJ and I are Bingo Junkies. When we lived closer to each other, Thursday was our Bingo Night. We would talk and talk, sharing hopes and dreams ... and copious amounts of chocolate!

BJ tried for a long time to get pregnant and it just wasn't happening. Different methods were tried, but in the end, IVF was going to be the only solution. This is a very expensive venture and they simply didn't have the money.

She was sad, I was sad for her. But the Universe has a funny way of balancing things out.

BJ phoned me one day to say that her Hubby took her to bingo to cheer her up. Hubby won the jackpot ... enough to pay for IVF!

"This is a sign," I said. "You MUST use that money for IVF. And when the baby is born, you MUST name it Bingo!" So throughout the pregnancy we referred to the baby as Baby Bingo ... BB for short.

BJ was a few days overdue and getting very restless. Hubby fell back on the ol' standby and took her to bingo one night to relieve her boredom. Where she went into labour! BJ is sitting there, dabbing her numbers, watch in the other hand, breathing and staunchly refusing to leave before the session is over. You go girl!

BJ is now the proud mother of a baby boy. They decided to name him Cooper, although the rest of us don't see the problem with naming the kid Bingo.

I think Dr. Bingo -- or even The Honourable Justice Bingo -- has a nice ring to it!

Happy Birthday, Mum!!

Today is Mum's birthday.

My Mum is cool! Ask anyone. I bet even strangers would say she's cool.

She never held back when I asked her the serious Life Questions. In fact, I watched my first Adult Movie with Mum.

I was 16 and had just read Ordeal by Linda Lovelace. For those not in the know, Linda Lovelace is famous for her role (position??) in Deep Throat. I was curious about the movie and asked Mum if she'd seen it.

"No, actually. Wanna rent it?"

"OK!"

So we had Movie Night.

I have to admit, we laughed our heads off the entire time. The dialogue was hilarious. "Mind if I smoke while you eat?"

Aaaahh ... good times!

Well, Mum, here's to you! Mother, teacher, confidante and friend.

I love you!

Shrubs and Trees

Was chatting with Barna Boo and M'Licious about the Olympics and drug testing. Barna Boo mentions Dick Pound (former Olympic Committee Member and anti-doping proponent).

M'Licious: (eye brows raised!) What was that name? Dick Pound??!

Me: Sounds like a 70's porn name

M'Licious: All he's missing is the pornstache and big bush (waving her hand in front of her Hoo Hoo)

Barna Boo: My eyes! My eyes!!

Aaaand ... we're back

I absolutely love going to the States -- the Land of Customer Service.

May I help you?
Would you like a refill?
Have a nice day, Ya'll.

God Bless America!

Even the bratty kids at the breakfast buffet were polite enough to say "excuse me" before they shoved their way through.

Unfortunately, the goodwill of the American People couldn't infuse happiness into The Girl who just couldn't (or wouldn't) get into the Family Vacation. Perhaps the next vacation will be sans Girl.

* * * * *

After many hours at The Henry Ford Museum:
Me: "Did we see everything?"
The Husband: "Well, we haven't seen George Washington's camp cot."

Two moms with two little boys at Chick-fil-A:
Boy: I hate you! (hits other boy)
Mom: We don't say that!
Boy: I was talking to the floor.
Mom: You were talking to the floor?
Boy: Yeah ... I hate you, floor!

Gone Fishin'

I'm on vacation – YEE HAA!! I won't post again until at least August 15.

We're not camping this year, as we have done for the past 13 years. Instead, we are doing a road trip. We're doing a road trip because The Girl is nuts. For some odd reason, The Girl doesn't want to go to an all-inclusive resort, which was our first choice.

To me, vacation equals a large expanse of water and some bronze god named Miguel bringing me fruity umbrella-laden drinks every 30 minutes. It's important to maintain a nice buzz.

But The Girl doesn't want to experience this Eden of vacations. We tried to entice her with the fact that she's 18 now and can legally drink at these places. No sale. sigh

So we're doing a road trip. Which excites The Husband to no end. He is completely absorbed in the reconnaissance of the trip. Don't get me wrong. I absolutely love this about him. There is a map on our dining room table with Post-Its all over it noting locations of hotels we're staying at, sites we'll visit, restaurants we'll eat at and potential shopping centres. He's got it all covered. Even locations for movie theatres if it rains or we're bored. We have several CAA Tour Guides and a Trip Tik that he printed and bound himself – in colour no less! He presented the Trip Tik to me last night, grinning like a fool. His exuberance is quite infectious. You can't help but get excited about the trip.

Where are we going, you might ask? And even if you didn't, I'm telling you anyway.

First, we're going to Detroit. We'll visit Greenfield Village, the Henry Ford Museum and tour the Ford Plant. We've been to Greenfield Village and the Museum before and I've been itching to go back. Both places are fabulous! The Henry Ford Museum has a temporary exhibit while we're there on the history of Chocolate. Yes Virginia, there is a Santa!

After a couple of days in Detroit, we're back on the road heading East to Ohio to visit Cedar Point Amusement Park. The Husband and I are roller coaster junkies. There's something cathartic about screaming your head off at 100 mph.

We were at Cedar Point a couple of years ago and absolutely fell in love with Top Thrill Dragster.

This coaster is 42 stories high – straight up and straight down – moving at an incredible 120 mph!! I CAN'T WAIT!!!

Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?

We Aim to Pee ... I mean Please.

Taped behind every stall door in our washroom at work is a sign:

This is simple, to the point and is – in my opinion – crystal clear.

I was at my shiatsu therapist on the weekend, and when I used the washroom, I saw this sign behind the stall door:

Also crystal clear.

Good thing I was already in pee-position when I saw this cuz I would have had an embarrassing accident; being as I could probably star in my own Tena commercial these days.

Who the heck needs to be told not to pee on the floor?! I'm pretty sure my momma had the talk with me about not peeing on the floor. "Fille, ne pisse pas sur le plancher." Probably followed by un bon claquer sur la tête. Clearly some women didn't have this enlightening conversation.

I can barely hover, let alone squat on the toilet seat! I'd end up peeing on the floor, breaking Rule #1, which would defeat the whole purpose of squatting in the first place. And who are these gifted women that can squat on the toilet seat AND hold their balance?

I think a new Olympic event is in order. "Look at that balance, Hank. She's been holding it for hours and she is managing to wait until she is in perfect position. She had problems with her dismount in trials. Let's see how she does. Oh! Too bad!! She peed on the floor. That's an automatic disqualification."

Now, I'd like to point out that my office washroom – with the polite sign – is a bit manky. The shiatsu washroom – with the in-your-face-don't-pee-on-the-floor sign is spotless.

Hmmmm … maybe these instructions really do need to be spelled out – in several languages.

'Relaxing' at the Spa

I had a wonderful day on Friday with BJ at the Holt Renfrew Spa. We lunched at Holt's Café where we were served by the most delicious gay waiter. We were pampered at the Spa with massages, facials, pedis and manis. Followed by drinks at Hemmingways, where I had a martini and BJ had a Guinness (it was her turn to be the butch).

While drinking and nibbling on snacks at Hemmingways, we perused the price list for Holts, pondering what our next visit was going to include.

Then I read the line that said "Virgin Relaxer … Upon consultation". Hmmmm … Holts is really expanding their product line.

BJ and I started debating what this Virgin Relaxer consultation entailed. Was there some guy hung like a stallion that gently crooned the entire time? Or was it more of a discussion with a grandma-type woman who ensured the young candidate that all women had to succumb at some time and if you just think about your To Do list then the time will pass quickly?

Most important … why was there no consultation when it was MY time??

You're Grounded!

Nephew #2 was telling us that his friend was grounded because he hadn't called home to tell them where he was. At the risk of sounding like my mother, kids these days are getting away with murder. So I was interested in knowing what constituted 'grounding' nowadays.

Me: "So what does grounding mean now?"
N#2: "Well ... he can't talk on the phone, he can't go out with his friends and he can't ... "

At this point, my ADD kicks in and I'm distracted. Oh look, shiny!

What I hear is:

N#2: "Well ... he can't talk on the phone, he can't go out with his friends and he can't do his weed."

Again, I channel my mother. What in the world has gotten into kids these days?? And what about the parents?! What kind of punishment is that ... He can't smoke his weed. Jeez!!

But I decide to go my usual sarcastic route.

"I see. Well ... that doesn't seem fair. Cuz when I was a kid, my parents let me smoke my weed when I was grounded."
I make a WTF face and hand gesture.

Nephew #2 clarifies, having to raise his voice above everyone's laughter.

"NO! He can't play his Wii!!"

Hmmm ... I'm not only beautiful, but it appears I'm also a little deaf.

To make matters worse, now when his mother grounds him, my nephew asks if he's still allowed to smoke his weed.

What's in a name?

Once in a while you come across someone who has an odd name and say to yourself (or out loud!) "What the hell were his/her parents thinking??!" All the while, trying not to laugh in their face.

Then I came across this article. Apparently some people are getting quite creative when naming their offspring. Or perhaps not. Maybe that old joke about the Indian Chief in charge of naming the children in the tribe has more truth to it than we think.

I think I'll name my kid Ima Accident.

What are you naming yours?

Out of the mouths of babes

We have taken the kids camping the first week of August every summer for the past 15 years. This year, The Husband and I decided we're getting too old for this.

It's a lot of work to set up camp, cook for a bunch of hungry teenagers, entertain them, de-camp. Not to mention pre- and post-camp organizing and clean-up.

So we're going to do something different this year. Don't know what quite yet, but ya'll will be the first to know.

Despite the fact that I'm looking forward to letting someone else wait on me, I'm going to miss camping. We tell great stories around the campfire, play games, eat like pigs and come home appreciating a hot shower and soft bed.

My fondest memory is when The Girl was only a wee thing. She wasn't quite comfortable with me yet and preferred to go to the washroom with Daddy. We all trucked to the washrooms for bedtime detail. The wall dividing boys from girls didn't go all the way to the ceiling, so you could hear everything next door.

The Husband apologized to a man who was also in the washroom, as The Girl was being quite animated pontificating on various aspects of the meaning of life from the perspective of a four year old. The man laughed and said he had boys of his own.

Which prompts The Girl to suddenly remember a tidbit of information she recently learned and pipes up:

"Daddy ... it's not a tail, it's a penis!"

Pssst ... wanna buy some cookies??

In local news:

Girl Scout Camp Marijuana Farm Busted
(read article here)

This is genius! Get us high so we have the munchies and are compelled to buy the cookies.

Does this make the girls Pushers? Or merely Mules??

Look Mom! No parachute!!

When we first got Kitty, she was a mischievous little bugger; digging in plants and knocking things over.

So when The Husband called me at work one day and, without preamble, said "Now before I tell you this, everything is OK" my immediate thought was that Kitty had knocked over my prized ceramic bust of David that I had worked on for weeks.

Later, I would realize that I clearly have to set my worry standards MUCH higher!

It seems that Kitty had followed The Husband onto the balcony of our apartment. Once she got out there, she panicked. She ran back and forth a couple of times then finally sailed right through the bars … all four legs stretched out like a hang glider.

Our fourth-floor apartment was above the main entrance to the building, over which was a concrete awning.

PING! She hit the awning and bounced off. THUNK! She hit the grass.

The Husband raced downstairs and found her cowering in the bushes. He brought her back upstairs where she immediately ran under the bed. Then he called me.

I called the vet, who assured me that cats can easily survive a six-floor drop and as long as she's eating and there's no blood in her poop, she's ok. I expected her to be cowering under the bed when I get home. But instead, she told me all about her exciting day, babbling on for quite some time.

The psychological trauma, however, is a completely different issue.

For weeks afterwards, The Husband would taunt Kitty by chanting MEEEEE-OWWWWW!

It was about four years before she would even jump up on the wing chair near the window to gaze out over her domain.

And even up to the day we moved out, whenever we opened the balcony door, she'd bolt out of the room and hide under the bed.

Kitty's therapist says she's making progress, though.

Lord of the Rings

My Danish friend recently called me. "I got a new ring. It's a Georg Jensen. Check it out online".

So I went to the Georg Jensen site. She got the Fusion ring:

Just beautiful! The girl has taste!!

I really like this one myself:

Then I started perusing the site. I think Georg needs to seek counselling ...

I'm guessing Georg is an ass man.

This one is a little too Big Brother for me. The diamonds are really miniature cameras.

It looks as though there's a ball that moves around inside. I'd totally be waving my arm to see if the ball falls out!!

This is my favourite. A re-creation of a cleverly disguised ice pick originally created by Q for James Bond. You know ... for those emergency Martini moments. I've already placed my order!

This would be the Red-Neck version, sans diamonds. Fer them there fancy shmancy parties where ya need ter pick yer teeth after eatin' up them possums!

Fried Green Sharks

Channel surfing the other night. The Husband has control of the remote.

Click.

Everybody Loves Raymond. Pause a minute.

Click.

Rosanne. Pause a minute.

Click.

Infommercial. Quickly change!

Click.

Big shark attacking a boat. Stop!

"I'm guessing this is Steel Magnolias" I say.

"No, it's Fried Green Tomatoes."

"Fried Green Tomatoes??"

He points at the TV at a close up of the shark.

"See, it's Kathy Bates!"

Not Smarter than a Four-Year-Old

The Husband came as a package deal: two kids and an ex-wife. It may sound bad, but in fact, we're all one big happy family. The kids are like Stepford Children and are about as perfect as any kids can be. And if that's not weird enough, The Ex and I are friends.

The kids are practically grown up now. The Girl just graduated from High School and The Boy just graduated from University.

They also have a little brother. The Little Guy is quite entertaining.

It became obvious very early that the Little Guy was fascinated by animals. He never played with cars, never played with action figures, but he constantly played with his Fischer Price Farm House. When he was about four years old, someone gave him a children's encyclopaedia of animals.

The Husband and I were entertaining the Little Guy one day, flipping through the book. He was pointing at various animals, telling me where they came from, clarifying if they were mammals. He was telling me things that I had no clue about. And he was four!

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" I asked him, thinking he'd say veterinarian.

Without hesitation, he said "I want to be a scientist." (Geez, I just wanted to be a teacher when I was four!)

"What kind of scientist?", thinking Rocket Scientist or something equally fantastic.

"I want to save the animals in the Rain Forest." What four-year-old thinks of this stuff??

But knowing that every kid has a back up plan, and knowing that his daddy is a fireman, I figured I'd ask what Plan B was.

"What do you want to be if you don't become a scientist?"

"I want to join the WWF." Ah … now this I know! Hulk Hogan, Andre the Giant, Rowdy Roddy Piper.

"So, what kind of wrestler do you want to be?"

The Little Guy sighs heavily, rolls his eyes and in a very exasperated voice says:

"I want to join the World Wildlife Federation."

Red Neck Puppet Show

There is a window above our kitchen sink that looks out onto the fence that separates us from the neighbours (fences make great neighbours, donchya think?).

It's not much of a view.

So The Husband decides to hang a flower basket on the fence so we have something pretty to look at while we get dishpan hands.

The Husband pops his head up above the window sill.

TH: "There's a dead squirrel here."

Me: "EW!"

TH: "Wanna see it?"

Me: "NO!"

TH: "Are you sure??"

Me: "Yes!!"

TH: [shrugs]

I resume washing the dishes.

Next thing I know, there's a squirrel bouncing across the window ledge, a-la-puppet-theatre style.

Suddenly a high-pitched squeaky voice says:

"How ya doin? I'm Sammy the Dead Squirrel. What's your name?"

Freak!!

Who let the dog out? Who? Who??

Kitty is quite vocal in the morning. I haven't quite figured out what she's going on about, but she makes it sound important.

This morning, as always, I gathered her bowls together so I could take them downstairs to the kitchen to clean and refill them. All the while, she's nattering on about God knows what.

As I came down the stairs, I said to The Husband "There's no way I could ever forget to feed Kitty. She's meowing like crazy up there."

The Husband freezes. "Oh shit!" And he races for the sliding doors. There's Puppy, looking VERY displeased, on the other side of the glass.

"How long has he been out there?"

"I don't know … 20 minutes? I forgot about him!"

Nice.

Puppy walks in the door, brushing right past The Husband. He turns around and gives The Husband a dirty look, snorts, then walks over to me for a hug. I croon all over Puppy while he glares at The Husband. The Husband comes over to try and pet him, but Puppy walks away with his nose in the air.

Oh snap! Who's in the doghouse now?!

Showing more than just my pride

Our fine city is celebrating Gay Pride this week with Two-Snaps-Up-In-A-Zee-Formation.

Every year, during Pride celebrations, I am woefully reminded of how beautiful I am.

Quite a few years ago (back when I was young, hot and skinny) a few of my friends from the Rainbow Lions Club held a fundraiser during Pride Weekend. A dunk tank was set up and, for a few bucks, you could Dunk-a-Hottie.

A bunch of us from work swung by to support the Girls. It was a very warm day and I was dressed for the occasion. A short wrap-around skirt and a racing tank top. Underneath it all, a thong.

We watched them fill the tank, all the while "sipping" Mike's Hard Lemonade. I was feeling pretty good, which is probably why, when Steven asked if I'd be the first Hottie, I slurred Shuuure! Why not?!

It wasn't long before I was dunked. Standing in the tank, my skirt immediately floated to the surface, hovering somewhere around my armpits. My Lemonade-soaked mind deduced that the wall of the tank was high enough so no one could see my thonged behind. It's all good! I left my skirt floating, turned around with my back to the crowd and watched with rapture (I'm easily entertained) as the ladder was re-assembled.

I climbed back up the ladder and took my seat. I had just made myself comfortable when -- WHAM! -- same thing. Skirt floats up, turn around, watch the ladder, climb up, dunked again. Before I knew it, there was a line up of women about two blocks long. Women were approaching the tank, chatting me up. This went on for about two hours. WHAM! Dunk. Floating skirt. Thong. Turn around.

Finally, I was getting a little waterlogged (and a wee parched) and asked to come down. As I climbed down, there was an audible Aaaaw! from the crowd.

I walked over to where the coolers were stored and grabbed another Mike's. As I'm squeezing the water from my skirt, I turn around to watch the next Hottie get dunked and I freeze. Steven and Neil are laughing like maniacs. I am completely mortified. I had no idea that the entire front part of the tank was see-through! No wonder these women were lined up to dunk me. Free show everyone! Come see the straight girl get dunked and see her hiney!!

"Why didn't you tell me?!" I asked, giving Steven a shove. "Are you crazy?!" he says, "Do you have any idea how much money we made off you?" Glad I could help.

However, I now have a nice collection of phone numbers!

The Screenplay of my Life

Today is my birthday. I'm not sure how I feel about this.

I'm always melancholy on my birthday. I tend to treat it like New Year's Day. Not so much an opportunity to start fresh with resolutions to improve myself (although God knows I certainly need an overhaul), but more a retrospective look at my life.

If you read Sylvia Browne -- and believe what she has to say -- then we have pre-determined our purpose for being on this planet. We are all following some cosmic (or is that comic??) screenplay written by our spirit selves.

Whether you are born into poverty or wealth, abuse or love, illness or health … you decided this on the Other Side. The people you meet, the joy and sadness you experience, are all things that you have mapped out. Everything that happens to us, good or bad, is something that we have decided we are going to experience. And the purpose for these experiences is to either learn something or teach something. Perhaps both. If you don't learn your lesson or deliver your message, then you're coming back to get it right the next time ... or the time after that. However many times it takes.

I look back on the screenplay of my life and think … WTF was I thinking?!! Clearly there is alcohol on the Other Side, cuz I was really drunk when I wrote my map!

However, I think that Sylvia is right. We're supposed to learn something and/or teach something.

I have learned that I'm a survivor. For all the negative things I have experienced in my life, all the extra baggage I have carried around, I think I've turned out ok. Thank God I was sober long enough to write in my screenplay that I should be accompanied by a wonderful cast of characters. My co-stars are what get me through each scene and I couldn't have carried my part without them. Little gold statues to all of you!

So what happens now? Have I learned everything I'm supposed to learn? Have I taught everything I'm supposed to teach? If I have, is it over now? Am I leaving? Where will I go?

Woah! That's waaaaay too deep. Someone get me a martini.

Today is Memère's 98th Birthday

I have wonderful memories of Memère. My grandparents lived about a five hour drive from our home. Whenever they visited, they would stay for several weeks. Memère would always bring date squares. They were absolutely delicious!

Mom and Memère would play game after game of Yahtzee. Every game was played for money … no point in playing if it's not for money! They'd each break out their little containers of dimes and ante up. At night, the cards came out and they played late into the evening. Memère still plays cards and Yahtzee for money and she wins all the time. Quite frankly, I think she cheats!

As she ages, her ability to speak and understand English is diminishing. She refuses to see the English doctor because she thinks he's incompetent … she can't understand him, therefore he doesn't know what he's doing. You gotta love this kind of logic!

I know that I'm going to be a crotchety old lady in a nursing home and I am proud to say that I have learned from the best!

Bonne Fête, Memère, je t'aime!!