Monday, January 31, 2011

Top Ten Bath-Time Albums

"Sorrow can be alleviated
 by good sleep, a bath, and a glass of wine."
~Thomas Aquinas~
















































































10. Nazareth -Geatest Hits


9. Meatloaf - Bat Out of Hell

8. Jimmy Buffett - Buffett Hotel

 

7. Leonard Cohen - Dear Heather


6. Andrea Boccelli - Vivere


5. Leonard Cohen - The Essential Leonard Cohen


4. Chris Botti - When I Fall in Love


3. Bonnie Raitt - Road Tested


2. Marc Cohen - Listening Booth 1970


1. Leonard Cohen - Live in London

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Intuition vs. Quantifiable Stuff

"The only real valuable thing is intuition."
~Albert Einstein~



Will there always be a gullible right-wing-processed-cheese-eating population? Or someday, will there be a euphoric tipping point when the veil of our great-Canadian-political-Oz is unveiled before our very eyes?

The good old Globe and Mail did not disappoint this weekend.  There were a lot of different viewpoints to consider.  Margaret Wente, god love her, had the chutzpah to write about "Health Scares". 

The headline, "If only there were a shot for irrational fears; Vaccination panic is strongest among educational liberal elites - the same demographic that votes green, drives a Prius and eats organic" captures the essence of her article. Great spirit forgive the human race for evolving into beings of consciousness. 

Wente refers to a study by Andrew Wakefield published in The Lancet about links between childhood vaccines and autism.  She sites sources that  point to the faults in Wakefield's study. Wente writes, "The public is fed a steady diet of scare stories cooked up by rogue scientists seeking publicity, tort lawyers looking for a payday, environmental groups hungry for both publicity and funding, and gullible media ever eager for a good bad story."

Fascinating. I would say the public is fed a steady diet of highly, but very discreetly cooked up truisms by the powers that be, tort lawyers looking for a payday, environmental groups hungry for the harmony between humans and the planet and their share of the pittance of funding that's just enough to placate a generally apathetic public and pretty-gullible-mainstream-media-turned marionettes by the great governing Oz. To think otherwise might be naive - non?

Ironically this very article is sandwiched between a story about a study by Kevin Milligan and Michael Baker (UBC and U of T respectively), that concluded longer parental leaves did not have a positive impact on child development. They measured temperament, achievement of milestones, motor and social skill development. Isn't that convenient for the government to use in defense of not paying parental leaves?

Now, in the case that was presented in the Globe, I do have to favour the government based on what is written in the article. Two parents taking leave at the same time and expecting to collect social benefits kind of has the stench of greed about it. However, I think that any well-educated liberal/conservative, Prius/Hummer, Anti-vaxer/gullible pharmaceutical zombie will admit that you can find a study that backs any argument.  Data can be skewed, and outcome measurements may be a nice neat dish served on a silver platter to the decision makers in the land of Oz, but we all know in our gut what is bullshit and what is not.

Wente accurately admits that the concern over vaccinations stems from distrust of the very profitable, and therefore influential pharmaceutical industry, or Big Pharma.  Wente says that "anti-vaxers" are hyper parents who are, "...obsessively worried that the world is full of hidden poisons that can harm their kids. They worry about the sun, or lawn spray, or trace amounts of chemicals in plastic toys".   GAWD forbid we care about the environment and how we impact it. What on earth are people thinking being concerned about toxic chemicals coating the shiny little toys that little Billy chomps on as he cuts his teeth?  Fools.

She is critical of this left wing hoo-hoo group who doesn't want their infants crawling around in fields of DDT with no studies to support trusting their intuition.  Somebody please do a study to support that.

Wente's headline - "If only there were a shot for irrational fears." McDish's headline - "If only there were a shot for  greedy goombas"...or something like that.

The headlines in print, on the web and on television were all over the unrest in Egypt this weekend. It all began with a university educated Tunisian whose life ended in protest over unfair governing.  Another headline in the Globe read, " In a span of minutes, a country goes off-line; Government orders Internet service providers to shut down all connections, isolating 80 million people and revolt's leaders."

Hmmm. Yep. If we mindlessly swallow Ms. Wente's simple minded attack on non-vaxers or whatever condescending name she prescribed  to them, we may not be too far behind Egypt in the grand scheme of things.  Money talks sweeties, and Big Pharma didn't get the name Big Pharma because the CEO's wear red plaid lumberjack shirts and stand over 6'3". 

This is my concession; so called Big Pharma does support non-profit work in healthcare, and profit itself is not a dirty word. But greed is.

Money whispers in the ear of our family physicians, our insurance companies, our government policy makers, and even in my ear. I do not profess expertise in vaccine science or autoimmune health issues (I bet there a heck of a lot of studies that link increased autoimmune deficiencies with environmental factors), but it would be truly ignorant to think that we, the general public can see any more than through a tiny crack in the theatre curtain of what is really going on politically.  Check out movies like Wag the Dog or Charlie Wilson's War if you need to get a feel for what I'm talking about.

Don't get me wrong. I'm thankful for the likes of antibiotics, ibuprofen and the pill.  I'm also a big fan of that inner voice we are all blessed with as human beings. That voice, or, I guess you could call it intuition like Ms. Wente does. You know, it's that little thing called a conscience (yah, yah, I get the little lingquistic irony there, just like pen is envy that we all learn in English 101) that tells us what is fundamentally right or wrong in any given situation. 

Winterlicious and Ladies Who Lunch

"Food is not about impressing people.
It's about making them feel comfortable."
~Ina Garten~
During Winterlicious, Toronto restaurants roll out their red carpets to battle-worn-post-December-holiday-surviving-troops and offer up some interesting menus at fabulous prices. It's a great way to bolster business, and give the general public an opportunity to savour fare that perhaps they would never otherwise be inspired to taste.

Each year I try to rally the troops for a Winterlicious outing, despite the bitter, dreary, grey cold of January. We are still fabulous despite the ice and snow and slush are we not?! In years past, there have been as few as three, and as many as 15 of us for what has become our traditional "Ladies Lunch". There were six of us for lunch this year; Claire (the young newlywed), Darleen (the new lady), Tish (mother of the bride), Myself (event coordinator), Candy (phellow phan) and Cura (baseball mom extraordinaire).

This year our destination was Toula, a restaurant with a fabulous view from the 38th floor of the Westin Harbour Castle Hotel, just at the foot of Yonge Street.  When I first stepped into the "lobby" of Toula, I instantly thought that there couldn't be a bad seat in the entire place. 

As we took our seats at the table, I chose the one with my back facing the window so that my friends could all enjoy the view.  As it turns out, I think I had one of the best views because I had a clear view of the beautifully snow covered Toronto Island.  With just a slight turn of my head, I could see the ice broken up on the lake, and the airplanes taking off from the island airport.

Unfortunately, the "new" lady, recently imported from Vancouver had a north-westish view of a tall condo  that was still under construction. Methinks the view of the tarps and industrial cranes did not contribute to the ambiance.  I can only imagine that the view of city lights at night would far outweigh any food disappointments. I'm now fantasizing about an evening dinner, looking out over the water reflecting the lights of our city.

I talk too much. It is my great desire to help people get to know one another. I love connecting people who otherwise would not meet but would be great friends, mentors and networking gurus.  I love seeing people enjoying the company of others.

Winterlicious has never bowled me over with the food itself. I've gone to places such as the Rosewater Supper Club, Lolita's Lust, and  Bodega.  None of them have charmed me based on their culinary flare alone, it is the atmosphere and the company I keep during the meal that creates a lasting impression. 

Had I been at Toula to strictly concentrate on the food, I would say that I would have been disappointed. The salad was well presented, but the gorgonzola dressing lacked umph. It's gorgonzola for goodness sakes - go for the gusto!  The two walnut halves and small piece of cheese on the salad fell short. If veal medallions are on the menu, it's a sure bet I won't be considering anything else. The medallions that I was served were more like mother-of-veal-chunks.  Veal should not come in "chunks". That's just my opinion.  The best part of my entree was the polenta.  How can you really go wrong with that? The asparagus was also lovely.  My strudel was cold, but heck - it was strudel nonetheless. 

Even though I was underwhelmed by the food, I was impressed with  the company of the women who shared my table.  Despite what I can't decide was either very careless service or very European service and mediocre food, I was very happy to be sharing this January afternoon with such wonderful people. Some new friends, some long-time friends, but friends regardless.

I had a chance to catch up with Tish and take a peek at Claire's wedding photos. Finally. What  a beautiful mother and daughter team!  After five years of parrotheading, this was the first time that I really had a chance to get to know Candy.  Cura, my comrade-in-the-stands-sunflower-seed-sharing-baseball-mom, joined us for her first Winterlicious Ladies Lunch. It was nice to get to know her a little bit better too. Darleen, what can I say? I remember how challenging it is to just pack up and move and re-establish yourself with new friends and cities.  I'm so glad that she came out and that we had a chance to meet her. I hope that there were some great, supportive connections made around our lunch table.

Winterlicious may or may not help you find a great new favourite spot to eat.  I've heard compliments and criticisms; it's a great way to try new places and food, the patrons don't tip well and the service is bad because of it.  There are benefits and drawbacks to everything.

Yes, the service might not be great. No, the patrons may not tip well because of the tempting lower priced menu. BUT, we're fortunate enough to live in a city where the food industry has been savvy and generous enough to host an event like this.  AND we're fortunate enough to live in a city where customers support the food industry. So, why not call a bit of a truce?  Enjoy the new menus, take a few food risks, and, at the same time, enjoy the company of good friends.

It's January after all folks. We're in the dead of winter. Take refuge in the port of good food, wine and company. Bon appetite!

Saturday, January 29, 2011

McDishy's Version



"I'm an impulsive man, one who believes in making his own mistakes
rather than regretting things not done..."




~Barney's Version by Mordecai Richler~










Today the sun was shining and the birds sang. Metaphorically that is. Well, I'm sure the sun really came out and the birds really sang somewhere. But today that was how I felt inside.

After a very, very, v-e-r-y long week, all I wanted to do today was curl up in a ball and hide under the covers.  But, at the crack of 9:15am I hauled my flannel clad self to the kitchen and made a cup of tea.  I perused my fan mail email, checked my phone, and continued dillying around for another couple of hours. I love non-rushed dilly time.  There's far too little of it in our society at present.

After singing my lungs out in the shower to a variety of hippity-dippity fun 60's mix songs and double washing my flowing locks, I wandered around the house for awhile in my underwear and socks.  Lunch with the girls (all fabulous by the way),  followed by a movie - that was the plan for the day. Simple enough.

I connected with my movie-mate, and via the interweb, we decided on a theatre and a time. Perfect. By the way, have I mentioned that this week I've started to lose my mind in larger than normal bits? 

Off I zoomed to meet my gal pals.  My movie mate was kind enough to speak to whomever one needs to speak to regarding free parking (Sergio, in fact is whomever you need to speak to) and I had a short, crisp walk to the restaurant along the lake at the bottom of Yonge Street.

As I was walking through the parking lot, I almost walked into a cute little red car. What better way to end up with broken limbs and further brain damage than to walk into a cute little red car? I heard someone call my name. My Phellow Parrothead Bob stopped to say hello (he was dropping off his phabulous wife Candy to our ladies luncheon).  It was nice to be stopped by a friend in the city. This, after a decade, has truly become home, I thought as I finished my chilly walk up the stairs and into the warm lobby.

As the group of us talked, over an almost three hour long lunch, we learned about one another. We "networked" regarding careers and resume writing. We discussed health, spirits, husbands, mothers, memories and by doing so set about weaving together the threads of our friendships.

After our lunch, I zoomed back across the city to meet my friend for our movie. He got the seats at the restaurant and I went to the box office to purchase our tickets. We have a pattern you see - movie tickets first, which leaves time for a chat over a drink before we head in to get prime seating.  Not a bad plan. 

Now, I know that I'm a bit flighty sometimes. Despite my very serious and organized outsides, I'm a veritable tangle of anxiety lately on my insides.  As the great pharmaceutical companies try to sort that out with help from Beringer and Sterling, my little mass of grey matter is wiggling around like murky jello trying to cling to some sort of sanity. 

Surprise, surprise.  I read the movie listings wrong. I like to think that they were listed incorrectly, however, I can't swing completely into insanity by blaming it on poor transcription. Or can I???

The movie that was showing during the time slot that I wanted wasn't the one that my friend and I had agreed upon. Oh well. "Two for Barney's Version", I said, thinking that I would likely be coming back to see the flick solo. Actually, I was thinking, "Shit. Shit. Shit." Oh well. 

After having read the book, I expected to be not only disappointed in the movie adaptation, but very disappointed in the movie adaptation. A colleague of mine who has outstanding taste in art, literature and film said that she didn't care for the movie, and I based my decision to not go and see it on her critique. I'd just watch it at home. No sweat.

My movie mate, who has the same twisted taste in literature as I do when it comes to humour, was going to be disappointed, or so I assumed. I had gone on and on about how much I liked the book, and that I thought seeing the movie might would be a let down. I had convinced him to read the book first.  I was a big, fat, novel-reading hypocrite with two tickets to see Barney's Version in my pocket when I wandered into the restaurant. "I have a surprise for you, " I said, as I sat down grinning what I was hoping to be a cute yet convincing smile.

The movie was outstanding. Paul Giamatti is my new Hollywood boyfriend. I'm sorry Colin Firth, you tall, handsome, sexy, pensive pot of British man-pie, you've been bumped.  Although the movie did not capture the entirety of the book, it did capture the essence of Barney, his father, and the emotion that transcends language in our relationships.  That, or I shouldn't have had the vodka slushy drink before the show. No, it definitely wasn't the drink. This was a fabulous movie.

You see, if the director/producer/writer/whomever had made the mistake of trying to capture everything in the book, it would have flopped. If you've ever read Snow Falling on Cedars by David Guterson, and then watched  the movie, you  know what I'm talking about. There is often a discrepancy between the emotion of the written word and what is captured in moving images.

In this case, the layers that propped up Barney's life were stripped away in the making of the movie, and the show concentrated on his human nature.  Third child, hilarious forged letters, and cutting wit be damned - this movie was great.

Even if you see the movie, I would still recommend reading the book. Described in one review as having, "...an embarrassment of riches...", Barney's Version is a truly great work of literary art.

Driving home, I flicked on the oldies station. Barry White's, "My First, My Last, My Everything", came on.  I was taken back to my days with the coroner. Being  the facetious woman that I am, I would turn the volume up and do a quick little dance around my cubicle. Barry White's uber-sexy voice would drape across the office like leopard print satin sheets;

"We got it together didn't we?We definitely got our thing together don't we baby? Isn't that nice? I mean really, when you really sit and think about it. Isn't it really, really nice? I could easily feel myself slipping more and more away to that simple world of my own. Nobody but you and me.We got it together baby."

Just thinking of that, with me being a goof, and my mentor laughing her pants off at her desk, and the coroner shaking his head, well, we really do have it together. As together as it gets at any given moment in time I suppose.

The irony of that song playing in that atmosphere is one of those things that's hard to give voice to. Language doesn't quite capture the absurdity of thinking that any of us ever have it together especially as the contrast between the buttery voice and lyrics filled the spaces in that office between suspicious and untimely deaths that were neatly recorded on paper and stacked chronologically. A very nice way to create the illusion that we have it all under control.

Each of us have our stories happy and sad, funny and heart breaking. All of those stories are bundled up somewhere in that lost land that is being disputed by the pharmaceuticals, the drinks, the girl talks,solitary drives and the constant re-scrambling of how we define who we are.  The stories that get tucked away somewhere in between 9-5, the groceries, flossing, getting to lessons and practice and church on time.

Barney is the balance of light and dark in all of us. This movie will prompt you to remember all of the friends you ever had who made you laugh and cry, who held your head up, kicked you while you were down, and all of the stuff in between. Barney's Version will make you thankful for what you have, for what you've lost, and for what we all remain hopeful for

What is it that we all hope for?

You know what it is. As Barry White would say in that sexy baritone voice of his, "You're my reality, yet I'm lost in a dream. You're the first, my last, my everything."

Mazal tov.

Thursday, January 27, 2011

Heavenly Thursday

Some days are easier than others. Some days it's much more clear to see what's supposed to be happening, and other days, you are left to wander in the vast mystery that is this human life.

Today was one of those "other" days. My cousin Mark, knowing how much I enjoyed last weekend's performance by Patty Griffin ( as a member of Robert Plant's Band of Joy) passed along this link of beautiful photos set to Patty Griffin's Heavenly Day.

It was so inspiring I just had to share....just in time for Friday.....

Enjoy!






Heavenly Day

by: Patty Griffen

Oh Heavenly day

All the clouds blew away

Got no trouble today

With anyone



The smile on your face

I live only to see

It's enough for me baby

It's enough for me

Oh heavenly day

Heavenly day

Heavenly day



Tomorrow may rain with sorrow

Here's a little time we can borrow

Forget all our troubles in these moments so few

Oh we can right now the only thing that all that we really have to do



Is have ourselves a heavenly day

Lay here and watch the trees sway

Oh can't see no other way

No way

No way

Heavenly day heavenly day heavenly day



No one on my shoulder

Bringing me fears

Got no clouds up above me

Bringing me tears

Got nothing to tell you

I got nothing much to say

Only I'm glad to be here with you

On this heavenly heavenly heavenly heavenly heavenly day

Oh all the troubles gone away

Oh for awhile anyway

For awhile anyway

Heavenly day

Heavenly day

Heavenly day

Heavenly day

Heavenly day

Oh heavenly day

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Jimmy Buffett Meditation

"Let me remind you: We are party people, and things will get better.”

~Jimmy Buffett~
Censors warning...don't read any further if you don't have a sense of humour or consider asshole a swear word.
_____________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________

Blogging about Buffett while baking banana bread with my bird on my breast pocket...kinda appropriate non? If you're going to get the full effect of the Buffett blog you might want to enjoy this Buffett classic while you read.....



Anyway....

"Great spirits have always found violent opposition from mediocre minds", that was the Albert Einstein quote that captured my attention during a window shopping expedition with my very best friend. "I love that," I said to her as we cruised the gift shop. 

My best friend has known me since I was 12 years old. We had been randomly assigned side-by-side lockers on our first day of high school, and the rest, as they say, is history.  We bonded over the view of Roger Morin's butt. Roger, by the way has since become an international model.
So, having over 20 years of insight into my psyche, my best friend gave me a curious, one-eyed-head-cocked-to-the-side look when I commented on the plaque engraved with the Einstein quote.  I am an idealist. I believe in doing the right thing, and that everyone else should too. That I would even consider there were mediocre minds out there was proof that I was in need of some positive-silliness-intervention.
My patience and good will have been tapped of late from many different directions.  This new year, my resolution was to be "Fearless". Fearlessness is taught to be one of the great gifts of Buddhism.  To be fearless in your understanding and practice of the dharma.  To be fearless in speaking the truth - not just the happy fuzzy warm truth, but the hard truths that are difficult to speak.

I would be proud to say that I took this inspiration straight from my dharma studies, but instead I must confess my human nature. I frequently indulge in monthly editions of SELF magazine, and the January issue featured the following quote;

"Be Fearless. If you make only one resolution this year, let it be to live boldly.  You control this moment: Rather than cautiously test the water, dive straight into life with freeing abandon.  Imagine the person you want to be and the life you want to live, then simply commit to them.  Believe in yourself.  Embrace your beauty. Discover a new passion. And whatever you do, wherever you go, don't be afraid to make a splash."

"Wow", I thought as I clipped the quote out of the magazine, "that used to be me!"  Somewhere along the way in the past year or so, I have lost my fearlessness. In the comfort of my daily routine, I became not only complacent, but fearful of change. In my gut I feel my fearfulness sprouts from comfort. Not such a bad thing right? I had become  fearful of doing the gutsy things I was famous for.  These are the "fearless" acts and decisions that I look back on now, and whether they turned out great, or were a disaster, of all of my experiences, it's the memory of  events inspired by fearlessness that have brought about positive change. Positive change, and many, many laughs!

 I have, in the past few years settled into a world of positive inspiration;

The large plaque on my office wall reads, "Laughter, Music of the Heart".  In my bathroom is a little sign that reads, " When you come to the edge of all the light you have known and are about to step out into the darkness, faith is knowing one of two things will happen; There will be something to stand on or you will be taught how to fly." You can't even let nature take its course without being inspired here. Under a mirror I have a sign that reads, "Everything has it's beauty, but not everyone sees it." There's another one hanging in my office that says something about loving with all of your heart....blah, blah, blah.
Today was one of those days that we all have when you feel like saying, "No. Really. Please.  Enough inspiration already."
Maybe I'm overloaded with positive snippets, but today, the most inspirational thing that I could think of to do was to turn up my Jimmy Buffett playlist during my commute.  Being positive is important. But being drained and giving yourself sickly sweet medicine may not be the answer.

So, with my Jimmy Buffett prescription filled and bottled in my iPhone, I took a big bazillion milligram dose of JB therapy.  How can you not laugh when listening to songs with titles such as; My Head Hurts My Feet Stink and I Don't Love Jesus, There's a Party at the End of the World, Jeff the Muff Diver and of course, The Asshole Song.

As I drove along this morning I listened to lyrics like , "....funny thing about it, Jeff don't even swim?!" or I'm goin' down to Fausto's get some chocolate milk. Can't spend my life in yer sheets of silk. I've got to find my way, Crawl out and greet the day, But now my head hurts, my feet stink, and I don't love Jesus (oh my lordy it's that...) It's that kinda mornin' , really was that kinda night ".

Now let's establish that I do love Jesus. I also happen to think that within the context of the song, the lyrics are brilliant.

And the Asshole song. If you've ever driven in rush hour traffic in the GTA, you'd get the humour;

"Well I was drivin' down I-95 the other night. Somebody nearly cut me right off the road. I decided it wasn't gonna do any good to get mad. So I wrote a song about him instead.It goes like this...Were you born an asshole? Or did you work at it your whole life?", and the line that always gets a giggle out of me is, "I was talkin' to yer mother, just the other night. I told her I thought you were an asshole. She said, "Yes", I think you're right".

I know, it's adolescent, toilet humour, but keep in mind that the general consensus is that I'm a responsible, educated, thoughtful and kind person. I'm also human, and to be fully human means to nurture every side of my personality. With the winter blahs, and Christmas bills piled up, it's ok to need to let loose. As the great Mr. Leonard Cohen lyric goes, "There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in." No puns on the Asshole song intended.

So, I'm feeling a bit cracked, and the humour and tropical tones of Jimmy Buffett bring a smile to my face as I stay on the right track being a responsible woman; friend, mother, employee, colleague, neighbour, and sometimes nemesis.

Check out some Jimmy Buffett on YouTube;

The Asshole Song


My Head Hurts My Feet Stink and I Don't Love Jesus




When I tell people that I'm a card carrying member of Mr. Buffett's fan club, I get sideways glances.  I'm also a member of the Art Gallery and donate regularly to charity and public radio broadcasting.  What most people don't know about Mr. Buffett is that he, despite his carefully branded beach bum image, is a highly intelligent man. A pilot, an author, and accomplished musician, not so bad for a beach bum.  His autobiography is an eye opener, and his novels are mind-trash, but hilarious.

One important thing to remember when being a Buffett fan is having the honour of keeping the acquaintance of other, light-hearted, fun-loving, salt-of-the-earth, give-you-the-shirt-off-their-backs Jimmy Buffett fans.  So, when I listen to his music, and a smile comes to my face, quite often it's because I'm remembering sharing fun times with my fellow fans. 

Some more profound lyrics/songs that might give you some insight into the genius of Jimmy Buffett;

A Pirate Looks at 40


One Particular Harbour


Beautiful Swimmers




I'll take you back now to that quote at the very beginning of my blog, "Great spirits have always found violent opposition from mediocre minds". Lately I've been feeling a bit like that great spirit. What's that other saying, you know, the one about never argue with a fool? ( I believe it's: Never argue with a fool. People might not known the difference).

Instead of arguing. Instead of fighting a battle that just cannot be won, why not take a big deep breath and laugh?

After all, as the great Jimmy Buffett says, "If I don't die by Thursday, I'll be roarin' Friday night!"

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Robert Plant and the Joy of his Band

"Music takes us out of the actual
and whispers to us dim secrets
that startle our wonder as to who we are,
and for what, whence, and whereto.”


~Ralph Waldo Emerson~







Do you remember events in your life where everything was just right? When everything - the people, the event, the food, the drinks, the atmosphere was just plain old good?

I had one of those times last night. It seems like a lifetime ago that I've had a night like that.  Somehow, in the past two years I got too caught up, trying too hard to make things perfect that just were never going to fit.  So, last night was my big McDish 2011 debut as it were.  I was off to see and hear Robert Plant and his Band of Joy. 

After a day of stuff you have to do to keep your household running, and of running errands for a grade school marketing project, I headed out into the unexpected snow storm to the great world of  night time city lights. With my child safely tucked in for a "guys" night, which involved Chinese take-out and lots of Wii-ing, I set off for the ATM, and my first concert in let's see... way too long!

Robert Plant that silly old rocker was at it again downtown at the Sony Centre/Hummingbird Centre/O'Keeffe Centre (depending on your vintage). I was quite excited to hear the much anticipated opening act, The North Mississippi Allstars, and see Mr. Plant on stage again.

I love the city at night. I love the lights and the buzz of energy, and wondering where everyone, all dolled up and looking their best, is going.  As I drove along the Gardiner, and into the hub of things, silently cursing all of those weenies who still pay to come and see the Maple Leafs humiliate GTA-ers again, who successfully clog the expressway in their eight bazillion mile line to exit at Spadina (because their GPS has no functional brain or imagination), I was so happy to live along the hem of such an eccentrically clad city.

My timing is immaculate. As I was heading to our secret parking spot, there was my pal on the corner of Front and Church. I honked my horn and they hopped in my car. Half running, and half frozen in one spot we tip-toed our way through the slushy sidewalks to a warm little pub and took some comfort in a little out of the way booth.  There was buzz about, and a number of other patrons were headed off to the same concert.

We were out for a night of good, honest fun. I was done up in a pair of great boots, and some blue, vintage beads tackily appropriate for such occasions. My friends often compliment me as the only person who can do tacky with style. I looooove tacky, and I wear it well. Tacky art is my forte, tacky concert garb runs a close second. (Note here my leopard AC/DC shirt and black, sequined, Stevie-Nicksesque-flying sleeved Elvis shirt.)

Real music fans warm the soft places in my teeny-tiny tacky-chick heart. Sometimes I feel like I'm a bit on the fringe of the fringe if you know what I mean. I like my girly footwear, great lip gloss, a little funky house beat now and again.  I don't take it all straight riffs and rock-a-billy-no-showers-and-three-straight-tour-nights-in-a-row-just-in-case-the-set-list-changes. I do have a taste for the 80's now and then, and need a bit of over-produced groove in my musical diet. So, this is my bow to you my readers; I am not writing this as a music expert, just a woman who was there in the moment and loving every second of it.


After a couple good swigs of wine and a belly full of calamari, I got caught up in a conversation with a man and his son about the concert. The son, who had a tattoo on his left elbow of one of those little discs you had to click into the centre of your vinyl 45's to get them to play was accompanying his long-grey-haired-leather-accessorised-father who, I'm sure graced the audience with a gullet full of magic mushrooms during Plant's Led Zeppelin days.  Cool. I was within arms reach of the fringe itself.

There's something inexplicably sexy about anyone who is organically musical (even when I haven't had two glasses of wine).  If you can sing, play or pick, you're automatically advanced quite a few notches on the sexy-o-meter. This goes for both men and women, although there are exceptions to the rule; Anne Murray, Rita McNeil, Barry Manilow and the man-pig himself, Gene-the-walking-STD-Simmons.

So, I was all geared up to see Mr. Plant take the stage, and snake and twist his lythe, sexy, senior-citizen, musically gifted body across the Sony Centre stage. Being able to share this enthusiasm with other music fans and best friends just makes the entire experience over-the-rainbow-holy-mackerel-thank-god-I'm-alive-tonight fun.

The North Mississippi Allstars exceeded my fringe of the fringe expectations. Two guys took to the stage and produced a sound as powerful and awe-inspiring as an entire orchestra.  Luther and Cody Dickinson, brothers, and the total of the NMA, kicked up a show that I'm thankful I had the fortune to witness. The sound was amazing. They riffed like Grossman's Ph.D. candidates. 

As they played, satiating the blues-hungry  crowd, I spotted the rare, lone psychedelic dancer. You know the one that I mean. It's the dude with rubbery arms flailing around in the air and tiptoeing in circles like one of the three ugly sisters around a cauldron.  I looked at my neighbour, and he at me, and we both had an Ah-ha moment. Is it? Could it be?! Goof-ful Dave who makes a spectacle of himself at every concert he can wedge himself into? (Dave is the loose thread hanging from the hem of the local music scene fringe if you know what I mean.)We laughed and laughed as everyone around us was launched into this wonderful experience of communal sound. (Incidentally, Goof-ful Dave also made an appearance at the most subdued Steve Miller concert I've ever attended this summer).

I wish I could say that the first strains of Plant and his Band of Joy's opening tune were completely mesmerizing, but heck! I'm a girl after all, and the first thing I noticed were Patty Griffin's boots! Nearly knee high with at least four inch heels in bright red....! I need those boots! And Robert Plant you sexy old piece of British man-jerky, you wowed me with your shining silvery/patent, pointy-toed foot jewels. Fabulous shoes...I ogled their shoes and then I focused on the music. 

Plant and his Band of Joy, which consists of Patty Griffin (joy enough on her own), Darrell Scott (the god of strings and the most ethereal male voice I've heard since Leonard Cohen), Buddy Miller, and some poor, nameless schmuck (who was never properly introduced) on the giant strings, performed a great set list.  Patty Griffin is ticket-worthy in her own right, but missed the mark on Rich Woman,  where I idealise Alison Krauss's vocals.  Griffin (had she been horizontal, could have been mistaken for a seizing patient, not a dancing musician), sings and plays like nobody's business. She's right up there with Bonnie Raitt.

Darrell Scott. Solo album? Yes please.  That's pretty much all I can say.  His voice was hauntingly beautiful and I can only hope that one day I have the good fortune of hearing his music again.

They performed a mix of rockabilly, blues, gospel and  Appalachian roots.  Plant threw in a smattering of old Zeppelin tunes and wowed me with an arrangement of "Tangerine".  Patty and Michael, Michigan faithfuls, ( I met Patty as we talked between bathroom stalls after NMA finished and they were setting up for Plant) sat just in front of me during the concert  and joined in my woo-hoo's and applause. "Please Read the Letter", is one of my favourites, and I thoroughly and completely enjoyed, "Satan Your Kingdom Must Come Down". 

What I found most remarkable, and is the signature of truly great live music is that the sound last night could never be captured on a recording. Like reading a book, and then seeing the movie, the movie just can't capture the subtle nuances of the written word. The sound last night,  the energy, the uniqueness and impossibility of recreating the moment made me grateful to be alive there, in that great blustery cold city, if only for those few hours.

The music gently and appropriately came to an end with a stellar and understated performance of, "And We Bid You Goodnight". 

It was a perfect night. Every bit of it. The wine, the food, the company, the laughs and the music. But the music would not have been as melodious had it not been for like-minded, joyful people. Thank you Robert Plant and your Band of Joy.

Oh yah. I almost forgot, if anyone knows where to get those boots, call me.

Saturday, January 22, 2011

Rheo Thompson Cherries and Other Things That Make Me Happy

"If I ever stop laughing, I'm dead"
~Tom Knapp~

It seems like ages since I've had a good, solid, belly laugh.  I can always depend on my friend Carrie for one of these daily, if need be.

This past Monday was supposed to be what "They" call the most depressing day of the year. Preceded by two months of insomnia, and followed by four days from hell, I'm starting to believe "Them". 

Yesterday, running errands, I was surrounded by the red and pink and white of St. Valentine's day. In year's past, I have fondly referred to the day for lovers as VD. How very appropriate.  Singledom does not lend itself well to days dedicated to lovers. Although I'm usually the queen of finding great greeting cards that make my friends squeal with delight, the holiday can be a little overwhelming if you're wishing-you-were-but-ain't-so-much in a loving, romantic relationship. 

Last year, strapped with more than a decade of singledom under my belt, I was prepared. No way was I going to let the good lovin's of other couples get me down. Surprise, surprise....VD came and I was not disappointed. My very, very, very dear friend had roses and treats and a card delivered, just because they know what a hopeless-hardass-romantic I really am deep down under my no nonsense exterior.  Surprise, surprise again, a lovely little younger-than-me addition to my black book popped up with a day out, dinner, roses, chocolates, French champagne (ok, I had to put the french part in there because I get such a kick out of it when people say "French" champagne...kinda like Spanish cava...oh the joy!), a night of being treated like the hope diamond. Ahhh....being single is not so bad.

This morning I woke up early, my kiddo still in that adolescent coma that is cosmic payback for all of the infant and toddler nights spent wide awake and aging mommy.  As I lie there wrapped up in my cozy fleece sheets thinking about my day, I was happy.  I mean having a lovely man who was also my best friend snuggled up beside me would have been nice, but that's not so, and therefore, I had the quiet time I needed to reflect on how many good things I have in my life.

Rheo Thompson chocolates. You know, the chocolate covered cherries with the stem that I used to buy and do my tying of the cherry stem in to a knot trick.  I love those cherries. Oh my gawd, and the mint smoothies. But it's not the chocolate that was the best part, the best part was knowing that I was going to spend time with some very dear friends way out there in Rheo Thompson land, eating, drinking and feeling on top of the world because of the company we were keeping.

Incidentally, The Gentle Rain has become part of the joy of my visits to Stratford as well. If you can buy my lucky tie-dyed socks in a store, sweet grass and white sage, it's a cool store.

Fried perch on buttered bread. No one makes it like my family from "down on the lake". Even though we don't see each other often, they are family, and I do love them. There are few replacements for spending time with people who have known you since you believed in the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus, and were afraid of crossing the street in the dark. There's something that makes you feel connected about family, regardless how wonky and nuts they appear to be to people who don't belong to the club.

Giggling with my best friend from high school. Grown, educated, women with families; we still gab almost daily, and despite the stresses of every day life.  We used to get together a few times a year, get dressed to go out, trying on clothes and acting like kids just for a few hours. And dance! Did we ever have fun. I need to do more of that too. Tomorrow sounds good.

Live music.  Friday night at my favourite pub, relaxing, ordering a cold beer and whatever was on the menu board. There was usually one or two friends who would be in for that after a long work week. Great music, an intimate crowd, and again, lots of conversation and laughter.  Concerts...I love going to concerts with people who are truly music lovers. Peace, love, and rock and roll sister! Robert Plant is my next ticket...I've even got the outfit ready!

A little side note here. To my mystery friend who sent the full page Gene Simmons advert from the Toronto Star. Thank you so much for the laugh. For those not in the know, I happen to think Gene Simmons is one of the most repulsive men on the planet - looks, personality, the entire ball of grease.  So, as I was working away diligently (is there any other way to work?) at my desk the other day, the mail was dropped on my desk.  No return address. Hmmm.... I opened the legal envelope to find a full page spread of Mr.Make-Me-Puke himself with a sticky note attached that read, "Wanna Go?" with a big heart underneath. I almost had a full blown belly laugh. Too funny. Thanks for the laugh mystery Simmons fan.


Food. Oh good gawd I have to get Mr. Simmons out of my mind before I talk about food or I'll be nauseated all day.

To enjoy a meal with friends is heaven. Food and wine and friends, what could make a person feel more blessed? A meal together where everyone is happy to be with one another.  In another week we're off to another Toronto Winterlicious event. Can't wait - it's always a good visit.

Flannel jammies, needlework, walking in the bright winter sunshine, road trips just to take photos and have lunch along a snowy path, pedicures, my friends in my fitness classes, snuggling into my seat at the movie theatre with diet coke and popcorn, discovering someone else who writes and thinking they're kinda cute, fresh haircuts, new projects, paying bills, playing with my little blue parrotlet, napping with my cat, deepening friendships, listening to the cares of other single mom pals, listening to the concerns of my married friends, remembering how much I have to offer someone out there.....they're all very good things.

As Valentine's Day approaches, I will remember all of these great things. Ok, and I'll hope for a little bit of that pink and red romance sparkle that found me a year ago, or at the very least, a Rheo Thompson cherry.

Monday, January 10, 2011

What Kind of Spa is This?!

"There is nothing more frightful
than ignorance in action."
~Johann Wolfgang von Goethe~
When I have a bad day, a bad week, a bad moment...I like to be kind to myself. Sometimes it's coffee and a newspaper (reserved for weekends only), sometimes it's picking up a fresh bouquet at the local Greenhouse, and other times I book myself in for a spa treatment.

Keep in mind, when I'm excited about an event, a date or, let's say a vacation, I also book myself in for a spa treatment. Generally I stick to pedicures, the mandatory clandestine waxing or the ever mundane manicure.

I stay away from too many manicures because I hate to see such a pretty set of fingernails chewed up doing housework only hours after the luxury of a manicure. Facials are a treat unto themselves, but make me break out so much that I can only schedule those when I have absolutely no where to go for the next week.

After a couple of impromptu meetings, and a weekend of housework (which I must confess I actually enjoy), I decided that today was a great day to get my little piggies pampered.  They way I timed it, after work I could get to the appointment just in time. If I made my appointment on time, and I took the short cut home, I could pick up my son before the mandatory time and make it to my early class at the gym. Perfect.

So, I got to my appointment, and was seated in the famous massage chair.  I wrapped my pashmina around my back and snuggled in. My bare feet were soaking in a lovely warm foot spa, and I managed to snag this month's Vancouver edition of a fashion rag. Perfect. Lovely. Just what the doctor ordered. That and the Valium I popped last night.

I've yet to find "the" pedicure gal at this spa. I've managed to find the quintessential waxing gal. She does a bang up job. Bad turn of phrase I suppose, but her waxing technique is second to none. She pulls fast and in the right direction and angle. She also does not cheap out on the very special technique of putting pressure on the newly bald area so that the sting disappears. Then she finishes up with a great clean up, and ta-da!!! I'm a smooth machine.

Because I had not requested anyone specific for my manicure, I was not surprised when an aesthetician I had never met took her position on the little stool at my feet.  I was seated in the chair closest to the door. The world was good. As it should be. Then the door opened. A cold, ten-degrees-below-anything-civilized blew across my wet legs.  Crap.

The pedicure continued, but as time wore on I realized that this must be a new aesthetician.  I sorted through the deep dark recesses of my teeny little brain, and came to the conclusion that I had never seen her before. Usually I don't look up from my trash reading at the spa.  After all that's the only time I indulge in reading girly smut, and a key factor in the ambiance of spa-girldom.  I found myself watching this woman go about the pedicure, putting lotion on, exfoliating and buffing in the wrong order. No worries. She was doing ok, and heck...even a mediocre pedicure was better than the last two days. This was taking longer than I had planned, and I might have to forfeit my eyebrow waxing. I was getting a little impatient about time, but I wasn't going to say anything. Despite the cold air from the door sweeping across my legs, I was happy.

The woman one chair over was obnoxiously loud about getting just the right shape to her nails, and yapping like a small house dog about the kind of crap that I was reading about. I kinda wish they handed out disposable gags like the disposable toe separators.  This woman had breached just about every etiquette expectation at the spa. Or so I thought. Little did I know that soon I would be plummeting into the depths of poor taste and spa-etiquette hell.  I was determined to remain in my little bliss bubble for just a little while longer, no matter how obnoxious my spa-mate was.

When I was a teenager, the father of one of my friends, a way-too-old-man-to-have-kids-that-age was prompted by our bad behaviour to say, "Believe it or not, there will be a day when you appreciate good manners and the grace of etiquette." Ne'er a truer word was spoketh

You see, there's always something worse that can happen, and as I sat there having my tender tootsies being attended to by an amateur foot gardener, Ms. Too-Loud-Chatty-Princess got up to leave.  Hallelujah. Or not.

You see, when you go for a pedicure, you have to remove your foot gear. Socks, shoes, boots, pantyhose, whatever you happen to be wearing. Now, I know what it's like not to be prepared for the pedicure appointment. I like to have my legs freshly shaved for instance, so that when I get the little five minute massage the stubble doesn't rub against the aesthetician's latex gloves.  That would not lend itself to feeling pretty if you know what I mean.

So, Ms. Chatty pants gets up, talking all the way, and then proceeds, all the while flapping her lips like everyone in the place needed to know her business and her husband's business - every.....flipping.....intimate detail.

AND THEN IT HAPPENED.....

She got her pantyhose out of her purse and proceeded to pull them on right there in front of me. She could have gone to the washroom, but instead, she hiked up her dress so her bare-thonged-rear-end was hanging out about three feet from my face, and almost touching my aesthetician's head, and bent over!!  SHE BENT OVER with nothing between her girly bits but a flipping thong!!!! G-R-O-S-S!!!

As I was recounting this tidbit about my day to my gym comrades, one of them asked me if Ms.Shameless-Bare-Bum-Blabber-Mouth was British. I answered, "No, and she definitely wasn't Brazilian."

God willing I won't have nightmares tonight about being swallowed whole by a  giant,hairy, toe wearing a thong. Ooga-booga!