A Gnomeo and Juliet Family Day

"If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton,
you may as well make it dance."

~George Bernard Shaw~

Ah, good old Family Day. The proverbial bone thrown from a connivingly dictatorial provincial government. Not as conniving and dictatorial as their blue cousins, but very close.  Family day, the holiday in the middle of the vast January-February-March winter doldrums landscape we all look forward to. It was either a day off, or 50% off at the LCBO on Superbowl weekend. This is much less expensive for the government to fund.

What an awe inspiring idea - a day to spend quality time with your family.  As I watched my now almost-taller-than-me-son set up our Wii for the Amazing Race game (which we lost after the second challenge), I got teary. This is it. My family of four never happened. My huge extended family has disbanded, and here I am on Family Day with my family of two. Two is a bit ridiculous to call a family - isn't it?

I looked at my son's frame, his long legs the spitting image of mine at his age, and I smiled. Yes, this was it. This tall pre-teen, my dopey white cat, and my cantankerous parrotlet were my family. Tucked in for the afternoon, we were all happy in our cozy little home.  Kitty the bird was perched half in, and half out of her bird bath, Leonard was curled up on the stool at my feet, and my son was giggling about creating Mii's of myself and his dad.  Life is good.

The morning started with a good sleep-in, which, as you know, is quintessential to any fabulously lazy day.  We struck out for the movie theatre to see, what I'm sure will become a film classic, "Gnomeo and Juliet" (Elton John the executive producer no less).  Surprisingly, the film was a hit with both myself (middle-aged mom and my pre-teen son). Just enough stupidity and kitsch to hook us both and make us laugh.  The previews set us up to see another four films; Hoodwinked Too, Rio, Rango and Winnie the Pooh.  Talk about culture vultures! We're so cool.

If you know me, you can count on my uncanny ability to screw up movie times. I can look up movie information in the paper, on the web, by phone, and always manage to get the times mixed up. Today was no exception. We arrived 45 minutes too early.  With the long sleep-in, I had skipped breakfast hoping to grab a diet pop and popcorn at the theatre. Nothin's says you're an adult like popcorn for breakfast, but hey, I'm just a very old kid. My son, entering his I-need-to-flex-my-preteen-man-muscles has been bugging me for a couple of weeks to take him out for wings.  Nothing says "I'm-a-dude" like chewing meat off a bone. Ick.  

With our 45 minute wait, I noticed a Wild Wings restaurant just across from the theatre. I didn't even bother to ask. I was screwed.  There was no avoiding the tearing-the-meat-off-the-teeny-tiny-bones-with-my-teeth  now. I was starving, and heck, it was family day after all.  Being the cool mom that I am, or the embarrassing mom (depends if you ask my kid, or you ask me), I said, "C'mon kiddo, let's get some lunch". 

"At Wild Wings?", the little man said surprised.  "Yep, I'm starving".

We bellied up to the manly wooden tables, complete with paper towel roll and bucket for the bones. Oh lord. Our selection of wings were the "Brown Eyed Girl". We chose them because they weren't supposed to be spicy, and the song reminds us of my crazy gal-friend Monroe. Wings and potato skins ordered, we watched some curling and read our horoscopes in the paper. My son felt sufficiently satisfied that this was a guy's place to eat, and I sufficiently regretted filling my stomach with greasy wings and potato skins.   I would have much rather tucked in with my popcorn and diet coke, although it likely would have cost more, and left my stomach feeling the same as it felt now - ready for revolt on all borders.

The movie was pretty cute. The story of Romeo and Juliet retold in the land of garden gnomes, except (spoiler comin' up....), no one dies in the end. The Elton John soundtrack was a bit awkward, but how can it be too bad when it's Sir Elton? I mean really, the man is a musical genius, and I love him.  There was on-line dating (Find a Bird), that I could relate to, and monster-truck-like garden tractors that my son could relate to.

I think the lawn tractor was my second-favourite character after the red-over-the-shoulder-thong-wearing-male-gnome. The lawn tractor is "The Terrafirminator - a weapon of grass-destruction". If you watch this and don't laugh, you seriously need to lighten up.

Dinner is on the stove now; my son's favourite sauce and pasta. We'll have some gooey dessert, get out the scrabble board and call it a day. A great day. Macho wings, silly movie, video game, miserable parrotlet, stunned cat, pre-teen kid and mom all added up to one happy family day. So, two isn't such a ridiculous number after all. Two counts. Two makes one great family, with a couple of fuzzy characters tagging along for the ride.

I hope you enjoyed your day, and counted your blessings, whomever they are. How did you spend your Family Day?

The Madam




"I don't pretend to know what love is for everyone,
but I can tell you what it is for me;
love is knowing all about someone,
and still wanting to be with them more than any other person,
love is trusting them enough to tell them everything about yourself,
including the things you might be ashamed of,
love is feeling comfortable and safe with someone,
but still getting weak knees when they walk into a room
and smile at you."

~Anonymous~


Aptly named, I would say, "The Madam", the cocktail of the weekend as revealed in the Globe's Style section.  I will sip this lovely little delight as I ponder the events and tales of Valentine's week. 

I get a kick out of Oscar Wilde. I always chuckle at the truth in these words, " How can a woman be expected to be happy with a man who insists on treating her as if she were a perfectly normal human being?".

By now, I was supposed to be well-mired in a loving, mutually enriching relationship with a man of appropriate age, education, interest and means. I was supposed to be on my way to co-habitating bliss, perhaps a beautiful ring on my left hand that I could swoon over during the daytime drudgery of work, errands, housework and lazy candle-lit baths.  I was supposed to be tucked in cozily, with a smile emanating from my heart because I was so damn blissful in relationship. 

Enter the Madam. Vodka, pink grapefruit juice, rose syrup, ground white peppercorns and Himalayan sea salt.  It sounds delicious doesn't it? Les pieces de resistance are the rose petals in the drink - apparently the ones I'm supposed to have left over from Valentine's Day. Ah yes - VD.  Ironic that it fell on a day that preceded the powerful full moon - the very week when PMS would be universally in full swing, and tears were right up there with the need for sharp knives and heavy blunt objects. Fucking fantastic timing. I raise my Madam to this cosmic irony.

Sitting in my tiny little pink office (no, that's not Freudian imagery) just before noon, my ever-cheerful colleague popped her head in and then produced a cardboard box duct-taped closed with the stem of a rose sticking out. Nothing says sweep-you-off-your-feet like black duct tape and cardboard. I knew who sent the box.  I laughed immediately. Petal end stuffed down in the box was a single red rose.  There were yummy chocolates, some odds and ends that I recognized as being mine - a book and some Cd's that I had lent out ages ago.  There was also a gift card for the liquor store tucked in there with my own things.

Interestingly it was a "Vintages" card, with a sophisticated looking design including a glass of red wine. In reality, I knew that I was going to buy as much cheap hooch as possible with the little piece of plastic, and soak my chocolate-fattened-peaches in the bathtub listening to Leonard Cohen songs and generally just being a girl.  I don't know that there's a gift card designed to subconsciously say, "It's ok lady.  Go out and try to purchase material happiness - don't forget the ibuprofen and tissues too.  You are going to be a lonely old woman with cats and cupboard full of  canned pasta".  If you do see one, please load it up at the LCBO and send it express.

The funniest Valentine I've ever received was in the box. Hand written on the back of a white envelope it included;

"...you will notice how I don't forget Valentine's Day....Anyway, my flower shop of choice surprisingly has closed down the street...I went to the more fancy-schmanzy one a few doors down and you would have killed me if I paid their dozen flowers' delivered rate. Here I am trying to be like cupid and these cocks think they have me over a barrel.  So, I adjusted and made you a nice VD survival kit to get you through ...You'll find herein some stuff I've been trying to get back to you and some new stuff. Most of the new stuff you can enjoy shitting sitting in the bathtub...all things good and bad must pass...Happy VD..."

Way too funny. I'm certain cupid never anticipated phrases such as, "...these cocks think they have me over a barrel...", as part of a valentine - romantic or not. A couple of the ladies I work with shared a laugh with me, and the day carried on. The rose was sacrificed to the lone male who works in our office so he could take it home to his wife, this their first Valentine's day as a married couple.   What on earth would we do without our girlfriends who lift us up and carry us through the crappy days, and celebrate with us during the good ones?

This year I played cupid. Last year my work-angel appeared in the form of another single woman. Until her arrival, I was the sole single person in my office. I can't tell you what a drag that is.  Surrounded by marital bliss in the office is like  being the crappy, coffee-cream-filled chocolate in the box of candies that no one understands why they even put it in there in the first place. You just don't fit. So, daily I exchange relationship and dating tales with my friend. 

Like a lightening bolt, as I was planning my VD Sundae party, I thought, "OH MY GAWD!", my work angel would hit it off with my friend Todd.  Todd, or "Hot Toddy" as he was known during our Forestwood-Flannel-All-Girls-But-Todd-nights.   Determined to out-do the VD growl  that rears its ugly head in my teeny tiny little shrivelled up cinnamon heart I decorated my place for VD this year. There were cupid streamers and hearts and candles.  I supplied the ice cream (banana, vanilla, neapolitan) and brownies. My guests each brought at least one sundae topping. We had cinnamon hearts, gummies, skittles, caramel sauce, peanuts, sprinkles, bananas, gummy worms, smarties and crushed Oreo cookies. Ten of us got together for VD, and noshed on Sundaes. What better atmosphere to meet your sweetie in?  A set-up at a Valentine-Ice-Cream-Sundae-Party. Yet again I'm convinced I'm a genius.

I'm keeping my fingers crossed that next week "Date #1" happens and Hot Toddy sweeps my single-work-friend off her feet. At the very least, I hope they make friends, and that their first date rises above any awkwardness.  Little hint....just in case you're reading this...lots of wine and flowers.....and if you get a second date, a third date, whatever....keep the wine and flowers flowing (both ways!). 

All right, all right. I'll fess up. I had myself a sweet little Valentine this year too.   No pressure walking into a woman's house with a heart wreath on the door and an over-sized shiny cupid hanging from it.  My son, what a sweetheart, gave me a stuffed, white teddy bear wearing a red shirt that has, "Hug Me", written on it. When you hug the bear, this sweet little voice goes on about how great your hugs are. Valentine's come in a variety of forms - funny notes from friends, borrowed roses, blind dates, dinners with new kindred spirits, and a rose drawn on the top of a personally delivered pastry box.  Those are some of the places where Cupid's arrow struck this year.

VD week behind me, along with five extra pounds attached to my fanny from drowning the heartache of singledom in wine and chocolate, I finish off the remaining drops of my Madam.  I highly recommend the Madam ladies, although, it is ok to substitute the vodka for Bombay Sapphire Gin, and not be bothered with three twists of the pepper grinder, finding Himalayan sea salt, or adding the rose water or grapefruit juice. Rose petals - don't be foolish!  Who has rose petals?

Bikini Waxing - Grooming or Sport?

"Vanity is my favourite sin."
~Al Pacino~

I haven't been to the gym in way too long. For the past two weeks I've felt sluggish and very blah.  I believe "blah" is french for "crap".

So, tonight on my way home I had a super-hero-like flash of inspiration. I wasn't dreading physical exercise. Indeed, quite the opposite, I was craving it.  What I was dreading was spending any more time cooped up inside in stale, furnace-heated-winter-air. 

As soon as I got in the door, I tore off my work clothes, and pulled on my "play" clothes.  With my bright, fuzzy Jannie-P mittens on, and my make-up scrubbed off, I tromped  into the snow.  The snow was falling, not gently, but gingerly. The wind had picked up enough to make me bend my head down and forward to avoid snowflakes getting in my eyes. 

I spent a wonderful hour out in the snow listening to Mr. Buffett, my mind wandering to the lovely ski weekends I have shared with my friends at Barbara and Dwight's. I missed the weekend this year, and last for that matter.

One of my favourite memories is stumbling into their warm kitchen, the last one to arrive as the sun sank into slumber on the winter Bruce County horizon. Cold and wet I stumbled into the sounds of latin jazz and an outstretched hand with a freshly made mojito.  Oh, I missed my friends tonight!

Nostalgic for my friends, I opened a lovely bottle of wine  I bought with this ski weekend in mind. I had planned on taking it this weekend in fact. However....(don't worry guys - I bought two - I'm saving one for you!!!).

After I came inside from my February frolic, I cooked up a new recipe that involved Red Snapper and lots of fresh parsley (I love fresh parsley), I sipped on my glass of wine. Almost half a glass in, I noticed that I was pretty relaxed. I chalked it up to my light lunch and long winter walk.

Nope. I was definitely more relaxed than I had anticipated when I uncorked the wine. I got up to check the wine label. Good old Cali-for-ni-A.  15% alcohol. A little much for this girl.  I retired to the chesterfield, and decided to let the wine soak into my dinner as I watched Coronation Street. Holy mackeral, half a glass of wine, and my warm winter glow was not budging. What to do? What to do?

Bikini Wax!

What a brilliant Sonoma soaked idea! I'm a genius. I heated up my wax...about 30 seconds too long. As I stumbled into my closet to disrobe I caught the faint scent of burning wax. Wrapped in my six sizes too big fuzzy blue bathrobe that makes my parrot think I'm her mother, I ran to the kitchen catching my left hip on the corner of the table. Ow.

As a recent rebel in the Egyptian political coup said, "It's going to be long, and it's going to be painful, but in the end it will be worth it." Onward with the waxing!!!

 I took another sip of the rubbing alcohol wine. I had time after all - the wax had to cool. I didn't want to waste this unintentional buzz now that I had the wax heated up. That's what made my bikini waxing brain wave so brilliant.  Numb the pain. AND - VD is coming. You know, the dreaded Valentine's Day.  When the fat man in the red suit shows up I'll be ready. Wait. No. When the big white bunny dies...whatever...wow that wine has some kick!

Into the washroom I went, with John Mayer serenading me. Jar of wax placed on a saucer, I had my hair-dye/waxing towel at the ready.  A guest once pulled the offending towel out of my linen closet, and recoiled in horror, "Oh my gawd Trish! What's on this towel?!".  Just bikini wax and hair dye stains lovey. Ignore that.

So, I proceeded to do the deed.  It's an unnatural adventure really.  Legs contorted, skin pulled, renegade hairs popping up where you least expect them. When all you can safely wear lest you stick to it, or inadvertently tear it and small pieces of flesh off at the same time, is a pair of glasses and a hairband, you know you're venturing into a dangerous sport. If my eyesight was better, I wouldn't need the damn glasses. I'm always terrified they're going to get waxed up and I'll mistakenly pull my eyelashes out.

That almost happened once you know. I came home from a late night shift at the funeral home and decided I'd wax my eyebrows so I'd be pretty during a hot date the next night. I didn't even have to look into the mirror after the accident. I knew something went drastically wrong when all of the skin above my brow bone screamed in torturous pain as I waxed three quarters of my eyebrow off all at once.  My hot date the next night only was blessed to see my "good side". I remember what a cutie he was, and I was terrified he'd stroke the side of my face one morning and recoil in horror as he wiped my fake three-quarter, painted-on eyebrow off.  This being gorgeous is harder than it looks.

Tonight I found stretch marks I'd never seen before, all the while balancing on one leg, singing my heart out to John Mayer and drizzling thousand degree wax all over my waxing towel and the floor.  Stretch marks don't seem so awful and tramatizing after you've had a glass of this wine. My friend calls wine "Mama Juice", I think she's got something with that code word.

I could hear my girly bits snickering, "Ha-ha you can't get me with your hot wax lady!". I waxed and pulled, pulled and waxed.  Hopped around with my waxing/dye towel permanently attached to the ball of my right foot, and my left foot high stepping off of little blobs of wax shrapnel. It was a beauty war. War of the Smooth. War of the Wax. War of the 15% Wino. A Muma Juice Incited War if you will.

Full on into the waxing, every time I shifted, trying to access some spot only god should see, my thighs would stick together, and then try to stretch apart.  Lovely.  Thighs unstuck I proceeded with my waxing. The wine helps.  I stopped when I shouted, "Ow", out loud. Somehow I had reached my limit. There were still vigilante hairs here and there, but nothing my fancy-five-blade-pink-warrior-goddess- razor couldn't fix.

I managed to get everything back in place - the lid on the wax jar, the tongue depressors (compliments of my favourite GP), the saucer back in the kitchen sink, and the dye/wax towel ripped from the tender bottom of my foot, my wiggly bits adjusted, all despite having hands layered with sticky, cooled wax.

Now, for those who don't do home "grooming", they give you a little bottle of blue oil with the waxing kit.  It's the only way to unstick the sticky bits when you're done. I always feel like a rubbed down butterball after I use that stuff. Oil manages to get in all the bits and creases and, like the hot wax, on the floor.

As I stepped into the hot bath water, one foot on the bottom of the tub, one foot on the bath mat, I hit a slippery spot, and I scrambled to keep my naked, oiled up self from doing the splits and falling backward, hitting my head on my bath pillow, and drowning with a concussion and a blood alcohol level just below the legal level.

Freaking waxing! 

None of my married friends do this "blah" (see french translation above) any more. I don't know whether I'd rather be hairy, or smooth and inebriatedly concussed.

Happy VD. Be smooth.