You're a Weirdo

"Life isn't weird, it's just the people in it"
~Author Unkown~

We’re all so cool aren’t we? We wear the right clothes, have jobs, equip ourselves with holiday experiences to be envied in our day to day conversations. We’re current. We read the news. We're just far enough left to be considered kind, and far enough to the right to maintain the status quo. We buy organic and complain about the lack of environmental legislation to keep us healthy, all the while popping manufactured vitamins and drinking from plastic containers while talking on our wireless headsets.

We’re so cool.

You know what’s really cool though. Well, what I think is really cool. I think our weirdness is cool. We’re all a little bit weird. Come on, you know who I’m talking about. No, no, not the woman at the office who wears the hippy skirts and yoga tops. Nope, not the dude with the weird haircut and bad breath in the cubicle next to yours. And no. I’m not talking about your kids’ school bus driver with the teddy bear strapped to the front grill (what the heck is that freakish phenomena about anyway, besides scaring the hell out of 4 year olds who still believe in the tooth fairy and tuck their teddies in before they leave for their half day of free daycare-aka-education?).

I am gloriously weird sometimes. Despite what may be on the seasonal menu of “normal”, we all tend to tip the scale sometimes. Our tastes vary. Our opinions come from unique experience, and although the majority of us who don’t call prison home, manage to walk our lives on the balance beam of the accepted norm, with only the occasional toe dip into the realm of weird.

This morning, as I drove up the airstrip-wide streets of suburbia, I rocked out to one of my favourite albums. As I was singing along, reminiscing, I thought to myself, “I would never listen to this with anyone who didn’t know me really, really well.” The kind of really well that knows under which circumstances they may be called upon to, “Hold my hair up!!!!”, or has been with me on my wedding day, or me with her, standing terrified in our crinolines bawling our eyes out. Yep, you’d have to know me pretty darn well to get a glimpse of my secret weirdness.

But, today is your luky day. As I was driving along I thought, "Why not?" Why not share some of my secret indulgences? The PG rated version of course.

Number One on my list of weird crap that I like (which inspired this little piece in the first place), is Dr. Hook’s Greatest Hits album. Who can’t relate to Sylvia’s Mother, or The Cover of the Rolling Stone, or A Couple More Years? A Little Bit More conjures hilarious images of  classic 70’s ‘stache lovin’ and I roll my eyes and giggle whenever I hear it. When I listen to this album, I can’t help but be in a good mood. Ditto for Bat out of Hell, which I have dubbed, "The Greatest Album Ever".

Number Two; canned mushrooms. Deadly good, and every once in a while I crack open a can and eat the entire thing – sodium and carcinogens from can lining and all. Mmmmm.

Number Three; stretchy pants. Yep, we all have those fat days. If I have a day when I can get up, not do my make-up, hair or bother getting dressed properly (these days have only happened a few times in my life), I want to be in something fabulously comfortable. If I ever wore these pants in public other than at a gym or paddling, I would condone the sniping of myself by the fashion police. Still, I love them ( and you do too, but you’re just too darn cool to admit it, you go-green-or-go-home-organic-cotton-wearing sissy!). You know you also love granny panties and tightie-whities too.

Number Four; curlers. What could be more girly than walking around with curlers in your hair, those pedicure thingy-ma-bobs between your pretty painted toes (do those things have a name?), and singing Peggy Lee’s, “ I Enjoy Being a Girl”. None of that is possible without the curlers. I think listening to Peggy Lee should get it's own number here on the weird list, but let's just refer to that as Four B.

Number Five; Cheese Whiz and oysters on Ritz crackers. ‘nuf said.

Number Six; Tacky art. I have a tacky art collection much to the chagrin of some of my nearest and dearest. I have my Cuba Lady, My Whatever Happened to the Girl from Iponema, and a handful of feminist art. I almost snagged a photo of the Queen. You know the one I'm talking about -like the ones that hung at the front of every classroom within the "dominion" in the 70’s and 80’s. It was going to be mine until the “seller” caught on that I was buying it because it was gloriously tacky. He got insulted and refused to let me buy it. Jerk.

Number Seven; I will gut a fish but not kill it. Gut a fish but can’t bait a hook. Gut a fish but can’t clean a fish tank because taking a fish out of water freaks me out. I’m sure there must be some whatever-o-phobic name for that.

Number Eight; Caftans. On a man. On a man wearing slip on slippers who also sports a ponytail. Very dude.

Number Nine; 80's love ballads.

Number Ten; quoting sacred text in arguments infuriates me to the point that when anyone does this I immediately write them off as a nitwit and disengage. Sheesh! Get off your soapbox and give the world a big hug you ding-dongs. If you think you know what scholars and mystics were saying a bazillion (that’s slightly more than a billion) years ago, get a Ph.D and teach me about it. Otherwise, shut your pie hole, breathe deeply and be nice.

Number 11; I think wearing underwear to bed may be unhygienic, but I think we all need to do it anyway. Except of course if you’re crashing at my place. Under those circumstances, please do not introduce your nether-flesh to the fabric on my furniture.

Number 12; I hate cleaning the bathtub, but I find cleaning the toilet cathartic.

Number 13; Wearing costumes. I love Hallowe’en, Buffett concerts, theme parties, and being a little quirky. People, it’s not about fashion, it’s body art. It's play time for adults.

Number 14; I can’t sleep if there’s an animal in the room. Don’t be smart, you know what I mean. If a man in my room is being an "animal" I definitely will sacrifice my sleep for that.

Number 15;  When I'm really sad I go to Hallmark and read the cards.

Number 16; I will not end a conversation with a loved one without saying " I love you." It's just bad mojo. I refuse to celebrate birthdays until the day of or after the specific date. It's the same idea as saying I love you. You can't just assume someone knows this always, especially in a heated argument or under less than ideal circumstances. Without saying it you're taking them for granted. Just like celebrating birthdays too early - you're assuming you're going to make it to that date, thereby taking your life for granted.  Pretty arrogant.

I could have written an entire blog on my tasteless taste in music and art. I could have went on about how I love Boxcar Willie, my own watercolour paintings, and how I despise eating tuna sandwiches without a thick layer of sour cream and onion chips beneath the top slice of bread. Instead, I painted a little rainbow of weirdness for you,  so you might feel better about your own dirty little uncool secrets.

I've shown you mine. Are you brave enough to show me yours?

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.

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!"

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!

Christmas is for Cursing at Cookies

"When you're angry count to four.
When you're really angry swear."
~Mark Twain~

Do you remember a few weeks ago I blogged about all of the lovely Christmas baking I was going to do? I included a link to the Toronto Star Advent Cookie Calendar, and ran out to buy the chocolate and marshmallows for the smore cookies? 

Since then, I have been yearning for the time to bake those smore cookies. Well, this morning was the time. I got up, made breakfast, had a very hot, fresh cup of coffee, and decided I would bake the cookies. After all, that's what great moms do right?

I thought that those smore cookies would be the perfect snack along with some hot chocolate at the outdoor skating rink tonight. We called my mumster Vicki, and she agreed to meet us at the park for cookies and hot chocolate. It was shaping up to be a Merry Danny Kay Christmasy day (as my granny would say) indeed!

My sweetie called from far-far-away, my kiddo was fed and outside playing, and I was happy in my little kitchen feeling all warm and fuzzy and domestic-like.  My son had spilled some soap on the kitchen floor earlier in the morning as I sent him up to put a load of washing in before he headed outside.

All warm and fuzzy from my coffee, breakfast and sweetie phone call, I thought that the soap was a great opportunity to scrub the floor. Heck why not? I put some Jimmy Buffett on, and got down on my hands and knees to scrub the floor.  Floor scrubbed and sparkling, I got to work on the cookies.

I measured the flour, the oats, the sugar, butter and spices. I cut the marshmallows in half and cut the chocolate into the right size.  I rolled the dough into perfect little cookie shapes and made a slight indentation in each to receive the chocolate and marshmallow topping.

Sounds like a great morning right? Sounds like the perfect home and December 22nd on holidays?

As I worked away in my little kitchen, my son called to tell me he was going to his friend's house to see if they could come out and play. Again, my son was upset with me for being such a tyrant as to make him wear snow pants in the snow. Go figure.  About one minute after the initial phone call, I pulled the cookies out of the oven to place the chocolate and marshmallows on top. Mmmmm!!!! Yummy! 

I was having visions of skating tonight. The rink is beautiful; it's a circular path poured around a beautiful white gazebo.  Large, old trees canopy the scene with their bare December branches, and the whole park glitters with white Christmas lights.

Tonight we would be the picture of a Thomas Kincaid painting. It was going to be lovely, and as we were surrounded by crisp, cold, night-time Christmas air, we would be munching on fresh cookies and warm hot chocolate.  This was going to be great!

Just after I popped the chocolate and marshmallow topped cookies in the oven under a boiler set on, "HI", the phone rang again. It was my son, "Mom,", he whined, "they're not home. Nobody's home! I'm bored. I want to play. I hate these snow pants....."  

"Would you like to go for a walk around the lake with me honey?", I suggested. "Would you like to come home and play scrabble?", I may just as well have asked, "Would you like me to hang upside down by my toes and whistle Dixie while playing the accordion and juggling knives?".  Nothing would have been good enough. 

As he was debating his next course of action, I smelled smoke. Not just any smoke. It was the scent of burning marshmallows.  "Just come home, " I said, and hung up the phone as I sprang up from my seat at the table. 

I have a very small home. It took one large step to get to the oven, and a very quick swipe across the counter with my left arm to get the oven mitt on my hand. I opened the door, and in the midst of black, campfire-esque smoke, caught one of the new cookie pans with my oven-mitted hand, while the other, like a roller coaster car at the top of a treacherous hill teetered and slid out of the oven and onto my right  foot.

I dropped the pan of cookies in my left hand and jumped back from the pan that landed on my foot.  You know what they say, if you drop buttered toast on the ground and it lands butter side up, it's a good day. Well, when you have an accident with a pan full of gooey, 500 degree Fahrenheit, melted, marshmallow topped cookies and they land marshmallow side down on your foot, it's a bad day.

In the spirit of all things Christmas, I cried out, "Happy Birthday Jesus!". Ok, that wasn't what I said, but what I did say was in the spirit of remembering Jesus.

Of course the cat, who had been disturbed from his death-stare-terrorize-the-bird-gaze, waltzed into the kitchen through the hot marshmallow and melted chocolate goo and then tore across the carpeted living room  floor like a maniac on speed.

Just as I pulled my foot away from the scorching hot marshmallow and cursed, the door opened and in walked my son, completely at his wits end because I had made him wear snow pants in the snow.

He took one look at the kitchen floor (pictured above), and my marshmallow and chocolate covered slipper. "I'm going to get the laundry," he said, and left me to my business in the kitchen. Smart kid.

So, instead of 24 cookies, we're going to be taking 12 to the skating rink tonight. Instead of banana bread and squares, today I'm going to go work on my hardanger work. After I wash the kitchen floor for the second time of course. 

Christmas is for Cleaning

"A lady is one who never shows
her underwear unintentionally”


~Lillian Day~

After putting up the Christmas decorations last night, and trimming the tree, my thoughts began to wander to larger jobs around the house. No, not a larger job like a man-job. I don't have one of those around the house, so get your mind out of the gutter!!!

You know, the kind of jobs that get a home ready for company.  Part of my annual Christmas cleaning involves sorting through my son's room. What to keep, what to throw away, and what to get an injection for.  You see, clearing out his room before Christmas makes room for all of the new "stuff" that we will sort through next year at this time. Why break from tradition right?

As I tossed and turned trying to calm my mind last night and tempt sleep, I got to thinking that I really needed to sort through my stuff.  My bedroom has become a catch all sleeping chamber, love shack, library, dressing room and make-up studio. In other words it's starting to look a little bit like a corner variety store.

Where oh where can a girl find extra space? As I snuggled up in the darkness of my midnight room, I had a brilliant idea! I should go through my lingerie drawer. I mean, I have a dresser full of uunderwear/undergarments/and sexy things that are becoming  shall we say vintage.  Lingerie used to be as important to me as good tires and regular oil changes. In fact, it was often way more important than that.

Wrapped up alone in my bed last night, I actually giggled out loud about some of the stuff in that drawer. I always bought lingerie because it made me feel sexy. I used to wear thongs and pretty nylons to work under my serious black skirts. I would come home and change from my cotton, front clasp embalming bras into something sexy and lacy.  It just made me feel good. 

There was definitely some stuff that I bought strictly as shall I say play-clothes. Something a bit racy, daring, or to suit the flavour of the month. Those are the pieces that make me laugh out loud.  Red fetish? Something crotchless and spandex.....really?! Sheer and form fitting?  Navy blue? Lacy? Leatherish?

Let's face it ladies, we know what we're doing. We all have our standby day to day undies, and our ooh-la-la-get-your-giddy-up-on-cowboy pieces. Well, at least I used to. My giddy-up done got up and left somewhere between earning a living and perfecting technique....I mean, if you're good at what you do, you can get away with being less of a fashionista...if you know what I mean. That, and somehow over time, I've just lost my va-va-va-voom. I'm sure it's not buried too deeply and I may find it again. Maybe Santa will fill my metaphorical stocking with something va-va-va-voom worthy this year.

When my best friend gave me my hot pink feather boa, it actually brought a tear to my eye. I mean, in your late twenties, finding a best friend who actually knows you so well as to appreciate your need for a hot pink feather boa is like finding your platonic soul mate.  I don't know if I can possibly part with that boa.  It just kind of pulls any sleazy outfit together. One never knows when one may need a sleazy outfit, even if it's within your own four walls. Note here ladies, it should almost always only be within the privacy of your own four walls, or the hotel walls, or the four doors of your car....well, you get the picture.

Then there's the custom made corset.  Yes, velvet with clasps and ties and barely enough space to pack the girls in.  Imagine a mini-van bulging with as many kids as a school bus, and you get the visual of the  overflow in that little number. I bought that during a shopping trip with some of my single gal pals who said, "You HAVE to get that!". So I did. I wore it out only once under a very conservative a la cuff linked shirt, and constantly felt like I had to keep checking to see if my nipples were holding their own little side show.  I'm not sure the complimentary drinks were worth the self consciousness. Mind you, that little piece kind of pulls together a garter and stockings. I don't know if I can possibly part with that corset.

There was a period of time in my life when I held a rather active account with Victoria's Secret, and ordered my favourite bra and pantie sets in every colour, with every style of matching pantie.  They don't carry it any more, but the cherry blossom bra was a good friend of mine.  My cup runneth over, so they can go now.

My very favourite piece was and is the impeccably designed garter thong. By the time I was 15 years old, it was clear that my body and face would never grace any fashion runway, or the cover of Vogue. This garter thong though, well, all I can say is that it would make Santa's butt look absolutely scrumptious.  And so, I could never possibly part with that.

Besides, when I think of that thing, I think of planning a hot evening with my man-of-the-moment and getting all tangled up trying to get the garters done up in a bathroom stall. The only bathroom stall in the establishment. You see, I was going to surprise him. My man thought that I was dying of food poisoning in there, and the ladies waiting their turn were more than miffed. I of course was balancing from foot to foot trying not to fall in the toilet or touch anything while doing up real fish net garters.  He was surprised I spent almost twenty minutes in the bathroom, and was likely afraid to get too amorous in case whatever kept me in the powder room that long was contagious. 

Besides, when paired with some fishnets, that garter thong matches the gloves that I bought at the cute boutique in Paris.  The long ones that come up to my bicep, and tie at the top with the most delicate pink ribbon.  The ones I decided I would wear one very sexy night, but due to the champagne involved, I was too uncoordinated to tie the darn things up. Again, more giggles.

I have decided that anything crotchless or sequined can be tossed. If I have to unroll it like a pair of pantyhose, I'm not keeping it and likely would be horrified at the thought of wearing it again.

What I am keeping are all of my memories of the goofiness and fun I had shopping for each piece.  The giggles, the planning and plotting and storytelling that went down in the great society of girldom.  For years I kept the garter belt and stockings from my wedding day, and will never forget looking at my maid of honour; eyes wide in ernest insisting that we get out of the park where the photos were being taken because something was going drastically wrong with my underwear.  Somehow in all of the ups and downs of the photoshoot, my very pretty panties had relocated somewhere just below my bum and above my knee caps.

So, this holiday season ladies, if you already haven't, go through your girly bits, and smile at your memories. Better yet, as my good friend Terri once told me, "Go out and make your memories now (...and I"m not jus talking about your lingerie ladies...make some great Christmas memories this year!), because life is short."

WikiWhat?



"The best argument against democracy
is a five-minute conversation
 with the average voter."


~Winston Churchill~



Our news needs some work. A little tweaking and re-prioritizing. You know get out your hammer-saw-and- 95-piece-screwdriver-set-tweaking.

First of all I have to admit to falling off the intellectual band wagon today people.  I succumbed to the convenience of the Toronto Star while picking up a coffee after a rather harrying appointment this morning. My most sincere apologies to the writers, editors and publisher of the greater than great Globe and Mail.

Having worked for a newspaper in the much over-romanticized "objective" (bullcrap) news business, I know that what comes above the fold is the most sensational newsworthy "news" of the day.  Did you know by the way that NEWS is an acronym for NORTH, EAST, WEST and SOUTH?  Yes? No? Well, that's the educational piece of this blog for today.

Anyway since the Toronto Star has pimped it's Saturday edition out to the seventh level of hell advertising Gods, it's become unclear (during the weekends ) what's news, and what's evil consumerism propaganda.  Today I decided that it was news above the fold, or what we have come to expect as news in our latte sipping, apathetic way.  "Diplomatic disaster for U.S." read the headline just below a photo obituary tribute to Leslie Nielson, and Grey Cup shot.  Under the headline (commentary to come regarding the headline), was a colour photo of the election protests in Haiti. 

Welcome to Monday morning Toronto, and enjoy your coffee.

"Diplomatic disaster for U.S." Seriously? Which editing genius came up with this?  Perhaps a more apt and true headline could have read, "Further Diplomatic Disaster for U.S." or "U.S. Still Diplomatic Dunce", or, "U.S. Foreign Policy - LOL".  Please don't think that I'm truly criticizing the editor here. I mean I know what kind of job it is to spin meaningless drivel into news on a regular basis.

WikiLeaks. Honestly.  Have we not yet evolved from our global political adolescence?  Are we really surprised that the U.S., or any other country for that matter is spying on it's neighbours, allies and enemies?  Do we really care that Moammar Gadhafi has a penchant for buxom blondes?  Hell, I might just line up for that free ticket around the world. 

Does it surprise anyone that Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula (AQAP) will twist words about whiskey and lies about U.S. military operations to serve it's own purpose? Come on people!!! This is not news - it's typical human thoughtlessness in speech. Heck, I take more care in my speech to long time friends about my own business than these quasi-Hollywood-world-leaders do in theirs.  Although, I do secretly and arrogantly think that my life is absolutely sensational. 

Four world leaders are pictured on the third page of the equivalent of grade-eleven-he-said-she-said-I-recorded-it-in-the-locker-room-high-school-smut;  Nicolas Sarkozy - named the Emperor with no clothes, but a populous with a centuries long tradition of good old fashioned frenchie-outspokenness-and-crassness-that-only-the french-can-get-away-with-non?  There's the "Risk Aversive" German Chancellor Angela Merkel, Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin or "Alpha Dog". Alpha What?! Quite.  Alpha Dog only at a club after four of five The Dude/Big Lebowski-White Russians-and-a-spliff. Give. Me. A. Break. Finally there's Hamid Karzai, (whom incidentally I secretly think is uber-sexy, right up there with septuagenarian Leonard Cohen). The Star refers to him as "Driven by Paranoia". Whatever. 

All I have to say is shame on WikiLeaks for even existing. Shame on "us" for allowing them to exist. Right Speech?  "P-e-o-p-le"....as my grade nine science teacher used to drone, "think!". Think hard....speak the truth, speak with compassion, be encouraging and helpful in your speech. We elected these folks, or at least have not opposed their leadership in great numbers. This is our mess too. We suppported it and helped to create and sustain it.

The election in Haiti, and the mass uprising of the populace to right a wrong. This is news. This is news we, as privileged, over-indulged, ignorant CNN sucking North Americans had better perk up and pay attention to.  This is how to affect change.

Personally, I found the Canadian Tire flyer way more intriguing than the headlines today. We know the political leaders of the world feed off of some weird narcissistic aphrodisiac, but what the heck do men do with 95 piece screwdriver sets? I mean - really. Do all 95 ever get used? Think about it.

This Buddhism is Very Serious Stuff

"Love is an attachment to another self.
Humour is a form of self-detachment;
 a way of looking at one's existence, 
one's misfortune, or one's discomfort. 
If you really love,
if you really know how to laugh,
the result is the same:
you forget yourself."

~Author Unkown~

Please sit down before you read this. I have something to write that will surprise, if not shock you into feeling disappointed, and possibly disillusioned. No. Really. Make sure you're sitting down before you read any further.

I have not yet attained enlightenment.  Are you ok!? Still with me?

As a matter of fact, today I think the only thing I attained was a cup of coffee at Starbucks and a copy of weekend edition of the Globe and Mail. Wait. Maybe that's obtained. Oh boy.

Earlier this year I decided that the conditions would be right for me to attend Dharma classes at my local Buddhist temple.  I've always wanted to have the time to do this, but what with working and parenting, I never seemed to have the time to really commit.  This was my chance. 

One morning each week, I trundle off to temple with my books, clipboard, bottle of water and a little bit of trepidation.   You see, I know I'm a long way from Nirvana.  Every time I "bite the hook", and become engaged in an argument, or lose my temper, or say something harsh, or in a harsh way (or, the triple gem of screwing up - doing all three at the same time), I know I've got a long, long, long way to go.  Boy, do I have a long way to go.

Hope lies in the teaching I'm receiving from Shifo, my teacher. She has the most pure, beautiful smile, all the while teaching the Dharma to an idiot like myself. I've never loved, feared, admired or wondered about a short, bald, puce-robe wearing woman so much in my life.

I've got the five precepts down I think...I can get by without killing, stealing, lying, sexual misconduct and even taking intoxicants (in a pinch). Does a glass of wine, half a beer or the occasional bottle of bubbly really count after all? This sexual misconduct thing....is it ok if it's two consenting monogamous adults? I mean, I'm just saying....

After my traditional coffee and newspaper outing....

Ok, I have an aside here folks. What the heck is it about people thinking that my newspaper is free game?! I mean, if I had my tattered copy of the The Great Gatsby sitting on the table next to my coffee, would someone assume it was for public perusal? Or, for that matter that my coffee was for randomly shared public consumption? Today a couple grabbed my paper and was just going to take it ( the very copy of the Globe that took me three stops to find yesterday). That is, until my fearlessness (one of the Buddhist three kinds of gifts - NOT this kind of fearlessness I'm assuming) got the better of me, and I let them know that that copy of the paper was spoken for.  They were offended that I actually wanted to read that paper. Perhaps I should have let them take it AND offered them  a taste of my coffee. Yum, yum, yum! Perhaps they should have at least asked if I'd mind if they read it. Which I would have minded since I read it and re-read it and refer back to it, but I would have let them share  anyway 'cause sometimes I'm nice like that.

Where was I? Oh yah, my Dharma classes, and what I got up to after my coffee stop.  I decided to study for my upcoming exam. It's stressing me out a bit. In the best way possible of course, because it's motivating me to study and learn.  I have always taken classes and earned degrees, diplomas, certificates and the like. The reason I'm taking this "course" is much different.  I like the principles involved, and how they apply to my every-day-living-working-parenting-friending-being-impatient-life.  

Learning the Dharma of Buddha in a community like the temple is a rich, life-changing, thought-changing experience. Learning about Buddhism in university, and afterward brought me to a much deeper and meaningful understanding of the Christian faith that I was raised in.  The conversations my classmates and I share after class while eating our lunch are deep, and funny. We talk and laugh a lot.

As much as I need to learn patience, mindfulness and even kindness, I believe humour is an important element in my own life that has served me well. Is humour joy? Joyfulness???  One of the quotes I studied today while preparing for my exam, "Happiness grows when shared. Affinity grows when discrimination vanishes." This idea is at the heart of the concepts of interdependence and interconnectedness of all beings.    My goodness, what on earth will I find funny now? I guess I will continue laughing at myself, and try to laugh with others.

I'll tell you what I found funny today....the way I looked in this sequined tunic today while I was shopping for a little somthin' somthin' to wear out to a few holiday parties.  Yet again aliens abducted me, and they held me against my will in a women's department store changing room! Can you believe it?  I absolutely cannot believe that I'm the only woman I know that this happens to. Then these shopping aliens brought in this sexy sequined tunic, and when I put it on (gasp!), I looked like a 5'8" snake with hips. The horror!  Thank goodness a saleslady heard my giggling cries for help, or I may never have escaped. Or worse, I escaped with only that hippy snakeskin and a pair of tights on...Run McDishy! Run!

Studying today I had a moment of pause thinking I'd have to give up laughing, what with this practice and serious study of the Dharma.  That moment passed. 

First You Cry and then You Cut Your Hair

You cannot prevent the birds of sorrow from flying over your head,
but you can prevent them from building nests in your hair.
~ Chinese Proverb~

Anyone who knows women knows that one of the first things to go in the midst of any crisis is her hair. Today I got my hair cut. I mean cut.

Generally I'm a pretty content woman. Day to day, I get by, find joy in ordinary things, and  feel pretty good. When I'm sad, I'm the saddest person on the planet. I weep constantly. My eyes burn and I can't sleep.  I feel sick. When I'm around other people, I want to be alone, and when I'm alone I cry.  I had a pretty rough week last week, and after days of weeping and feeling awful, I made it to Friday. Not just any Friday. This is my holiday Friday. My kick-off-my-two-weeks-of-summer-holidays-Friday. Usually ante ceded in any emails by "Woo-hoo!".   Not this time. I came home and just wanted to crawl under a blanket until I disappeared.

Thanks to my adopted mom, I got through the weekend.  She bundled up my son and I and took us up north for some R&R, and she made me laugh. Oh my gawd she made me laugh. Thinking of her in her bathing suit, kayaking with a long-dead, giant (like huge/giant) northern pike sprawled across the bow with my son cheering her on from shore, makes me laugh just remembering it. It's one of those bright spots in the grey that makes me know I will feel better eventually.

Anyway, we looked at perky haircuts and agreed (as all women would) that a fresh, new haircut and colour would be just the thing to make me feel better. That, and a trip to MAC Cosmetics, and I thought that I would be on my way emotional recovery, or, at the very least, looking like I was cheery and competent. Ironic, because that's the polar opposite of what was driving me to get my outward appearance together.

So, this morning, before paying my colossal car repair bill from last week (special note here I do have a fantastic mechanic, it's just that my car is ready to retire), I thought I would go to my new hairdresser's, and get that perky little cut that would change my entire life.

My son was uber-patient today. He waited, quiet and still, while I explained to Helen the Hairdresser (no, really, that's her name), the kind of cut I wanted. It was a cute, just-below-the-chin-cut with long sassy bangs. I even brought a photo, and I wanted to leave the place with my dull hair looking cheery and playful - just like the picture. 

I was so happy as I tipped my head back, and Helen began to scrub my hair. Oh yah. Ooh yah. Feels great Helen. Wash that sad right outta my hair girl!  She combed and cut and combed and trimmed. I was going to be gorgeous. Gorgeous! I suppose it might be a good time to note here that Helen is Chinese.  I am not.  I am more the European, tall, broad shouldered kind of gal.  If you transplanted my hair to Helen's head, she would look like a freak, and if you took her cute square bob and planted it on my head, I would look like a weirdo. Kinda like Emo Philips if you will. So, there I was under the black plastic cape with a towel wrapped around my neck, watching Helen work her magic on my mane. Well, I wasn't really watching because I can't see without my glasses on.  I had set them aside, along with my earrings so there were no impediments to Helen's magic-mane-making. 

Helen took the big round brush that I'm such a fan of and applied it and the hair dryer to my head like a pro. She twirled and curled. I closed my eyes and let her work away. My scalp was scritchy clean and my hair was going to look cute. It seemed a little short, but it always does when it's wet doesn't it?  Helen began her final touches on my hair, and when I opened my eyes and she was setting the hair dryer aside, I almost burst out in tears. Helen had taken that square, Chinese bob and placed it on my head!!! A blonde one!!! I looked worse than weird. I looked like a dork!

If you've ever watched the Johnny Depp version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and are familiar with the bubble gum blowing Violet Beauregarde, you'll be familiar with what I was looking at in the mirror. Blue eyes round and huge in horror with a bob that curled just about two inches above the level of my chin. This did NOT look like the picture. This did NOT resemble the perky haircut that my adopted mom and I gave the nod to this weekend as the one that would cheer me up. What the heck?! Was it possible that I could actually feel worse?

Trying not to cry and yell, I pointed again to the picture that I had hoped would be a road map to my happy place. "I want it to look like this Helen". Helen glanced at the photo and gestured casually with her comb, " It's square", she said as she touched the bottom of my dorky looking hair cut. "Yes, I know it's square Helen. I was hoping for more round."  Round? I would never have described the perky-cute cut as round, but I knew that it sure as heck wasn't square."Oh. Ok." She said, and started cutting again.

Shorter. My dorky square, just-above-the-chin-bob was getting shorter. "Um. Maybe try some layers Helen." Clearly irritated Helen continued to cut with more abrupt gestures. "There", she said, "You have layers. Shake your head. You see" (yes, a statement, not a question here). I shook my head, and decided to cut my losses. I got out of the chair and took my photo with me.  I figured that I'd try a new hairdresser when my hair grew back. Helen tried really hard, but my hair was a flipping disaster. I was ticked off. Beyond ticked off.

I drove the twenty minutes home and, as most women do right after a hair cut, I re-styled my hair. My son was silent. He, having learned diplomacy as the child of a hot-blooded, never-one-to-keep-her-opinion-to-herself, single mother, kept quiet and waited patiently.  When I had finished with my haircut, I touched up my lipstick, and I didnt' feel like such a dork anymore. My very caring son said, "Wow Mom, that looks really good. It makes you look younger." I gave him a squeeze and said thank you. I wanted to hug him and tell him what a great kid he is, that he makes me happy beyond happy, and he's the light in my days, but that's not cool when you're 11. A shoulder squeeze is. So that's what I did.

You know, after I styled it myself, the cut turned out to be ok after all. It is cute, and it is perky, and I look 100% more happy than I feel inside right now.

Tonight I'm colouring my own hair. Let's hope that works out.

Got Gratitude?

"Success is the ability to go
from failure to failure
without
losing your enthusiasm."
Author Unknown

PART I - The Fine Art of Bitching & Moaning

My friends all know me as a bit of a firecracker. Or, rather, have known me as a bit of a firecracker.....lately I've been more like a spitting fire - you know, the kind of campfire that sputters and spits just before dying a pathetic death under an assault of painfully tiny raindrops.

Where did it go, that joie de vivre that was untampable for so long? Has it dwindled in the wake of a turbulent life, flying by the seat of my pants from one moment to the next? Now that I'm calmer, more centered, dare I say even "stable", is there room for the fireworks any more?

All of the sudden, I'm grown up. I have a stable job that I'm actually good at, and I no longer scramble to prove myself. I've reached a stage (and age) where people seek me out for advice and guidance, and for my (LARGE gulp of sauvignon blanc here), reasoned approach....WHAT? Me?! Trishy McDishy? Trish the Dish? McDish....sought out for her ability to reason and find a solution. What the hell is going on with the world? Everybody take your portable toilets and can openers to the bomb shelter and pray for a halt on the apparent oncoming armageddon.

What's wrong with all of these people who need to talk to me?  Suck it up. Deal with it. Oh, for goodness sake, just make a decision and do it!  What an annoyance! I've explained this to them a zillion times!  I'm tired of doing it all by myself! How come I'm the one who has to do this? Doesn't anyone care about how I feel? I'm tired of....blah, blah, blah, blah, blah........I feel fat and old and frumpy, and nobody loves me. Na-na-na-na-boo-boo....

Funny how it's all part of a downward spiral? Defeating self talk. The mind natter of champions.

"Stress is when you
wake up screaming &
you realize you haven't
fallen asleep yet."
Author Unknown

PART II - Overview of Things You May Not Want to Know About My Day

The fireworks have given way to days packed with tasks. The first one, always a good indicator that the day will be less of a period romance novel and more of a boring foreign flick with no plot; turn off the god-forsaken alarm clock (note to self - complain more about whoever invented that damn thing). Clean and dress thyself (very important not to skip this part).  Make breakfast, pack lunches, check homework, scold for homework not done, feed the cats, feed the bird,double check my first appointment/meeting time, double check I have my pants on (no kidding). And so the days go, Monday to Friday, January through to December 31, with the odd day or week off here and there.

Evenings run along the same schedule, arrive home, check for homework, clean up after the cats, clean up after the bird, open the bills, worry about having to pay them, after school snack, to the gym or to baseball practice or, or, or.....make dinner, do the dishes, return phone calls, do the laundry, clean the house, work some more from home, get food ready for the next day, tell my pre-teen to shower, tell my pre-teen to shower again, feign passing out as I sniff my pre-teens armpit and point emphatically toward the shower....

Somewhere in there, my fireworks have fizzled, been gagged by the damp ground and the drizzle of adult responsibility.  Every so often the spark gets oxygen, maybe at a meeting when  feel passionate, when I treat myself to a night out at a concert, or party, or, gawd-forbid my favourite thing....a night in with my partner - a bottle of wine or two (checking to make sure that I don't have my pants on).

"Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing
I know." E. Hemingway
By the way, check out Johnny in the white pants.
WOW! He's the only man on the planet that can
pull that look off without making me want to vomit.

PART III - What Keeps Me Afloat

Booze and Johnny Depp. No really - the end.  Ok, ok, booze and Johnny Depp when I'm in the deepest darkest pit of self-pitty-poop.  Just before I land there, one of my friends usually manages to throw down a safety rope with a glass of champagne or piece of chocolate attached, and pull me up out of the depths of my 9-5, 24/7, single parenting, paying-the-bills-alone-for-a-decade,wishing-for-romance-of-some-kind, pit of eternal bitching and moaning.

So, as you all know, as hard as I've tried, I am not an alcoholic, nor do I live on chocolate and wine. I've tried, and despite my attempts, it just didn't work for me. What - you may ask, has kept me healthily cynical, and spontaneous this long....well..YOU! You guys - the ones most likely reading this dirt I like to call entertainment. I have gratitude for you!!!

"I awoke this morning with
devout thanksgiving for my
friends, old and new."
Ralph Waldo Emerson

PART IV - What I'm Grateful For

Vicki - with her little surprises, and down on the ground commitment to treat me like a daughter. No one, since I have been a very little child has drawn a bath for me.  One day I arrived home after a long day at work, and even longer night at school. She had picked up my son from school (as she did every night when I had a class), fed him dinner, helped with homework, talked to him and made him feel special, and then cared enough to make me feel cared for above and beyond what she already had done for me.  As I slipped into the blissful warmth of the tub, she was driving herself home after her own very long day at work and babysitting.

Lisa - with her patient listening.  Holy smokes, she could quote every single complaint from part I of this diatribe.  She has known me since I was 12 years old, through my wildest, loneliest, scariest and joyous times. Believe me, it's been a wild ride!!! And get this - she still speaks to me!!!  She encourages those fireworks that she knows are still inside of me somewhere.  We have stuck together through first dates, breakups, university, college, weddings, funerals, divorces, babies, and a zillion sizes......my longest friendship.  It feels so good to have a, "remember when" friend.

Carrie - I say her name, and I laugh. She's like my little sister. I see in her some of the same characteristics that I have watched slowly disappear in me, and that helps keep the flame burning.  I love her uncensored talks, and that she's the only friend close to my age who  knows what it's like to be down and out. She too knows what it's like to be at the very bottom of the "Phuck-it-all" philosophy.  I've seen her struggle and thrive.  We've cried (and laughed even more) over boys. I was so proud of her on her wedding day. Now, every day I wait  to hear that she and baby-on-the-way are doing ok. She inspires me and scares the hell out of me all at the same time. We all need friends like that.

Mark - one of a few relatives that I actually like. What an amazing person.  I read his writing, and observe how he (as he puts it), "...shows up every day" in the world.  Conscious living isn't easy, but he balances it well, and is one of the strongest, most insightful men I know....and believe me, I've know a few...When he writes, "I love you Trish", it's the only family connection I have to that sense of unconditional love to which we instinctively all cling, regardless of the pain being members of a family exposes us to.

Jan -  she convinced me to read Harlequin novels and looks like a lady in plaid...a delicate dynamo! What would I do, and where would Andy and I be without our go-to-girl...a couch for a sick kid, and a real tea cup for the important visits...a true friend to the end this one...I admire her silent strength, her unflinching faith, and eye for interior decorating...thank you just doesn't begin to cover it....oh yah...salt beef and cabbage (that's right Jerry!!!)

Randy -the male version of me. "Oh for gawd's sake Trish- suck it up!".  I can now say, "Remember when..." to him, and we go back a decade now, remembering when.  We've worked together (not so successful!), and played together, and laughed our crazy heads off at how stupid we are sometimes.  He holds a mirror to my fireworks and I to his...and that's how our friendship helps to keep the other alive. Most of our conversations end in one of us laughing and hanging the phone up on the other. He also knows that nothing cures my hangovers like runny eggs, tomatoes and two aspirin.

.....and Andy,Tish, Kathleen, John, David, Barbara, Dwight, Diane, Stan, Lucy,Cindy, Cynthia, Jacques, Terri, Josee, Paul, Sandy, Leona, Todd ,Jim, Evan, Aunt Debbie, Aunt Penny, ...there is so much inspiration in the little ways of everyone around us - all of my colleagues who inspire me every day, my son's friends as I watch them grow, my clients, the rare relatives I keep in touch with....

Beyond good friends, wine and a hot soak, it's the divinity in the mundane that I'm most grateful for. And that divinity shines through every one of us...if we just have the courage to look down into that well of the deepest, darkest,self-pity-poop when the ones we love need it the most.