Mooned by Sheikh

"Moorish Girl Lying on a Couch"
Rabat Morocco

by Edwin Lord Weeks

Any woman who counts Margaret Atwood a friend as Nasneen Sheikh does in her recently published, "Moon over Marrakech", I assume to be a strong, intelligent female.   What is a strong, intelligent female? More problematic still, what is a strong, intelligent female within the context of romantic love?

I am infatuated with the thought of maintaining my own persona of the strong intelligent female. I am also infatuated with the thought of travelling to Morocco. Interesting conundrum. For the last few years I have wanted to take an extended holiday there. I've read history books, travel guides, fiction, and most recently Ms. Sheikh's memoir, set, for the most part in that mysterious land I have so often fantasized about. 

In this post, I am only going to speak of Ms. Sheikh's tale of her second marriage, I will not forray into the complexities of the third. Go on, get out there and buy the book!!! 

Donna Bailey Nurse reviewed Sheikh's book in the The Globe and Mail as one of two "..captivating memoirs". Captivating indeed! 

The book takes us through the labyrinth of Sheikh's romantic life.  Beginning at the end of her first marriage, and, straight away into her second.  Red flag.  One very wise, very Jack Daniels soaked friend of mine gave me some sage advice when I separated from my husband.  He said, "You think you're ready for another relationship now, but you need at least three years to heal yourself before you'll be any good to anyone."

I thought he was crazy.  But, as it turns out, he was right. I needed that time to regroup, get intimate with the bruises and scrapes that happened along the road at the end of my marriage, and heal enough to have the energy to give to someone else  in a relationship.

Bruises and scrapes and contemplative healing be damned. Ms. Sheikh headed straight into a head over heels relationship with whom would very shortly become her second husband.  Despite the overuse of extravagant adjectives, Ms. Sheikh describes a seemingly wonderful relationship. Her husband adored her, doted on her, was more than competent as a provider, sender of flowers and devoted, satisfying lover. (Any man reading this, please note the above three qualities - and oh yes, the man was intelligent too - in other words, she could roll over and talk to him after their fantastical love making sessions.)

As she paints the picture of her honeymoon with hubby numero two, there are hints of power and control issues.   It was his choice of guide, his insistence on keeping the same guide despite her expressed discomfort and swarthy secrets that she needn't worry her pretty little silent head over. That kind of thing. Before the end of their honeymoon, I was disgusted at her submissiveness. Although her husband cares for her, it is in a way that leads to her acquiescence, she yeilds to his needs and agenda and does not have her own. Is this imposed dominance in a sneaky subversive way,  or is this what we do in relationships - bend to please our beloved?

But what's submissive? What works and what doesn't? From the outside looking in, and from an ever-expanding perception of my own relationships, what is this dance of self and togetherness? It certainly is not black and white. Like arguing religion infused politics, arguing structure in a love relationship is futile. Maintaining a unique identity while etching out the identity of the couple is interesting to say the least.


More and more the lines cross, instead of being drawn with firm boundaries. Navigating the ever-changing web of these uniquely woven lines seems to be the art of love relationships. On page 123 of her book, when the author finally finds her missing ex-husband who has lied about a long-standing psychiatric disorder, and left her destitute, she says this of rescuing him, " This is a choice I make with full consciousness."

Over a long chat, some diet soda and a plate of nachos, one of my very intelligent girlfriends and I discussed our romantic relationships. We're educated, independent, and also struggle with maintaining our strong, independent selves while loving the men in our lives.

We too have made our choices with full consciousness. Just not full logic, and instead, a heaping amount of emotion. Does this make us weak, or does this make us brave women who hold the world together with that taboo (within the secret sisterhood of strong, independent women) glue of loving and giving?

A few years ago, I came across a quote that I am reminded of time and time again when I think of relationship issues. Not only romantic love, but the relationships we hold most dearly; close family and friends. That saying is; "The truth can be seen from many doorways". What is felt by one person is translated differently by the other. It's respecting how the other feels and treating that emotion with honour and respect that is a key to one of those many doorways.

But that's the rub isn't it? Being able to practice that loving and honouring of your partner's emotion when you have your own feelings and ego at stake? I don't think I'm alone when I say I'm unsure sometimes where loving ends and losing yourself begins? Yep, not so good at navigating that tightrope when it comes to voicing what I need and going over the top just slightly. I am by the way, quite fabulous at "over-the-top".

Although I just wanted to pull the author out of her own life as I read her tale of three marriages, who is to say that she was ever wrong? How can I judge another woman when I struggle with  my own identity in relationship? Let's face it ladies and gentleman - we all struggle with this.

This could not have been easy putting her life out there on the shelf. Granted, like every other writer, including my beloved Mr. Leonard Cohen, Ms. Sheikh likely needed the money, what with having a disasterous third marriage to a man who  cannot arguably be described as anything else but a underdeveloped-selfish-flap-of-wasted-skin. 

Granted financial need likely played a part in making the decision to publish the book, we can use this narrative as a mirror to our own selves. I am deeply thankful to Ms. Sheikh for sharing. There is always value in witnessing someone else's story.

After all, perhaps I was the weak, ignorant female, having picked up Ms. Sheikh's book with the hope of hearing a tale of a "successful" romance? A tale of a woman finding true love of mutual respect and intellect in the most unlikely of places.

We need to continue to share our stories; not just the perfectly baked cake and romantic-weekends-away stories, but stories of our heart - the trials and tribulations we experience as women. It is in this deep, dark muck that we will find the wisdom to grow.

Christmas IS

"Friendship multiplies the good of life
and divides the evil."

~Baltasar Gracian~

Christmas is always in our hearts even if we have to dig a little to find it down there; determined and shining. Let that sense of wonder and awe linger just a little while longer within you this year.

Count your blessings and know you are loved.

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 Contemplation

St. Francis in Ecstasy
1483
by Giovanni Bellini
 
"What we plant in the soil of contemplation,
we shall reap in the harvest of action."
~Meister Eckhart~

I had the luxury of a mid-day walk today. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and the squirrels were fat. They'd make a great stew. Ahhh....what an absolute gift to have some quiet time.

As I walked, I listened to a CBC Tapestry Podcast featuring Richard Rohr, a Franciscan Priest.  Saint Francis of Assisi, according to Father Rohr has the longest biography of anyone in the Library of Congress. Why? Because Saint Francis was so loved.

As I have written before, I have recently been spending time taking Dharma classes at a local Buddhist temple. I have learned much about the religion, and even more about how our religions can lead us to spiritual practice in our daily interactions.

This is what is most important to me. More often than not now, in situations that used to bait me relentlessly I find myself saying, "Breathe", "Don't bite the hook", "Breathe, breathe, breathe".

 

I realized today that I constantly think in terms of good/bad, me/them. Rarely am I naturally a non-dualistic thinker. It has not been part of our modern western culture. Am I ready to give up the familiar confines of singledom and enter the unfamiliar halls of coupledom? What happens if I fail again? My ego kinda likes being distinguished, even if it's with that "single" adjective. Today part of the discussion was about being in relationship, how your ego, when fully engaged in friendship, marriage or parenting, our own ego has to downsize in order to make room for the "other".

How does this relationship work? Is it good or bad? Right or wrong? Black and white thinking is comfortable and simple. Maybe too simple.

I was born into a protestant Christian family, studied modern western Christianity in University, along with a smattering of other religions, and have attended church sporadically throughout my life.  I love the ritual of the Roman Catholic faith, and although I don't know that I could ever "convert", I find much peace in attending their services - especially funeral masses. I also find comfort in the rhythm and ritual of my own church, but I think that the fundamental institutional structure of the church today has lost it's connection with the conduct of every day living.  The reasons why are many and long, and at least another three blogs worth.

Part of the discussion in the podcast I was listening to today as I strolled around the lake, was about the great number of people who go to confession and confess they have not been to mass. To summarize Father Rohr, this is not the intention of confession. Confession is meant to serve a higher functioning consciousness within us that regards love (agape and eros as well) as a high ethic. Our confession is about about how well we have been able to serve our "god" (our god"self" and that of others).

Oddly enough, today my cousin Dave's blog was about honouring the Sabbath. The Sabbath being the one day a week set aside for spiritual pursuit.

Father Rohr discussed the idea of contemplation today. Of quiet contemplation; no television, radio, internet or conversation. In our last staff spiritual reflection, our Spiritual Care Coordinator led us through a reflection about  capital M, "Mystery" as written by Rachel Remen in her book, My Grandfather's Blessings.

Contemplation is an ancient practice that somehow has become lost in the increasing business of humanity throughout the centuries and meillenia.  I believe, more than attending services, this loss of quiet time for contemplation is significant.  It leads us away from meaningful day-to-day interaction.  As much as we need knowledge of scripture, tradition and ritual, we need to expose our mundane interactions to our spiritual selves.

Non-duality, a term I became familiar with through my study of Buddhism is a concept rooted deeply in all great religions.  Contemplation can lend itself to thinking in a non-dualistic way. In other words, not thinking in opposites. Some of the examples used in the conversation today were tall vs. short, ugly vs. beautiful, good vs. bad. Mystery lies between somewhere, in that black hole where good and bad merge. 

Thinking non-dualistically allows contemplation at a higher level, where notions and ideas are what they are, and not pinned against an opposite in order to be assigned their value.  We are often taught that a thing, event or situation is "good" or "bad", one or the other.  The idea of holding the positive and negative at the same time is not something we have been taught to do or cherish. It's one or the other. Keep this, discard that. We have left little room for mystery.

Just as my sight is limited, I know that there is something beyond the rise of the hill at the foot of the lake. Perhaps this life, this existence goes beyond our being, we just don't have the far-sightedness, so to speak to empirically prove it. This is mystery.

The discussion of contemplation and mystery moved on to ego. I first really learned about "ego" in university as I studied psychology, reglion and great works of literature. Non-dualistic thinking diminishes the ego. When the ego is diminished, we are able to see things more clearly, accept them as they are, even make room for mystery to sit with us and make itself at home. That's where all loving begins, at the beginning of the end of the ego.

One of the catch phrases of the year seems to be, "It is what it is". I've heard it spoken by more advanced students at the temple, by my own clients, and by Father Rohr today.  Acceptance, not needing to act, to be in the moment is a very powerful tool.

Boy oh boy do I wish you could walk right in to Home Depot and purchase that one! Although you can't pull it off a shelf somewhere, this non-duality can be cultivated by each and every one of us. Whichever of the great faiths you associate yourself with, and even if you don't connect with a faith group and even if you consider yourself the greatest of atheists or existentialists, you can apply the idea of non-duality to your life and relationships.

So, while I'm on holidays, after I do some needlework, read a couple of  books on my to-read list, maybe I'll reach for Father Rohr's book, The Naked Now. Or, maybe I'll take some more quiet time, just to sit quietly, to contemplate, to meditate, and to  let the mystery that surrounds us at Christmas time settle in.



Christmas is for Cats

“Your cat will never threaten your popularity
by barking at three in the morning.
He won't attack the mailman or eat the drapes,
although he may climb the drapes
to see how the room looks from the ceiling.”
~Helen Powers~

Just as I am convinced there are no men out there between 35 and 45 who are attracted to well-educated, independent, family-oriented and really funny 30-something women, I am convinced there is no such thing as a "normal" cat.

This holiday I am particularly bound in my own solitude.  Somewhat by choice, and somewhat by the reality that most of my girlfriends have travelled afar to be with family this Christmas.  Which leaves me in the city alone, left to my own devices; going to the movies, the bookstore, coffee establishments and shopping all on my own. Not a bad fate to be doomed to I'd say.

Today, as my calling would have it, the taker-carer-of-things-while-"I"-am-away, I took a jaunt up to my friend Vicki's house.  She's a great pal, and a great mom, and a great laugh all rolled into one. She also happens to be a Newfie, and married to the most Newfie-est of men I have ever met (No offence to my other dear Newfie pals Jan and her hubby Jerry, or, as I refer to him as Jerry!).

They are parents to two wonderfully beautiful and intelligent little girls, the eldest of whom thinks that Auntie Trish is a combination cosmetics counter for the under 6 set and confectionery on wheels. 

What an honour it is to be held in trust to take care of their home this holiday.  Considering I worked with Vicki for a number of years, and she knows how very retarded I am with locks. One morning I spent three hours (no exaggeration here folks), trying to open the back door of what will remain and un-named funeral home.  As it turns out, even after fetching a second key, I did not have the wrong key, but alas, the wrong door.  I was trying to open up a closed down coffee shop. Yes, I was born blond.

Earlier in the week, upon arrival at her abandoned house for the first time, I was not surprised that a) I had forgotten the garage door opener, and b) I could not find the electronic code-pad-thingy to open the darn door.  I tried my key in the front door, but alas, Vicki's wise husband had locked that from inside. Go figure. What a genius he must be under that teddy bear exterior and goofy-newfie accent.  I'm glad she married such a smart man!

Anyway, after a cell phone call and text way across the waters to their homeland, I got the secret location of the security-code-pad-thingy.

I opened the door to the house, and voila - there it was -the land of all things kitty-food and litterish. Wonderful.  I heard the soft padding of feline feet behind me and turned, startled, to find not one, but two cats staring back at me.  I remember the one kitty, kind of brownish and tiger striped, but not the other one. I wondered if Felix or Felix-ette had invited a friend over and was having some uncensored kitty-shindig while the owners were away.  This unknown second cat was the ugliest and fattest cat I have ever seen in my life, and believe me, I've seen a few cats. 

She/he is HUGE. I decided that she (I'm going to call her "she" because there's something ungodly stately about this thing, and only a female can have that kind of presence) belonged here because she was too well groomed, and way too well fed to NOT belong to someone.  You can't help but love an animal that ugly. She is so ugly, she's cute, kinda like a cabbage patch doll or one of the Statler brothers. You know what I mean.

Anyway, upon my return to the house, I was prepared to be greeted by both kitties. I gave them more food and refreshed their water, and had the distinct joy of sifting through the clumping cat litter.  These cats have bladders the size of grown humans! I swept the floor and got rid of the bag of treats the Santa-cats had left for me in the litter box. 

They're still not too sure of me, but came for some pets anyway as I sat in the hallway.  They must have caught the scent of my cat on me and decided that I was ok after all.  All three of us took our business into the kitchen where I began to water the plant. I hope it's plant not plant"s" or, I hate to tell you Vicki, the rest of your plants will require immediate disposition upon your return.

So, as I was filling up cup-fulls of water for Mr. Plant, the doorbell rang. What the?! Who on earth was at the door. I didn't know anyone in the neighbourhood, and I hoped that it was one of the Newfie relatives I had met while visiting my friend. I opened the door to find a very short, very inquisitive, very foreign man looking up, way up to me through his large, thick glasses.

"Can I help you?", I asked, only opening the door enough to peek my head outside just in case some reasonably tall and burly men had accompanied said little man to break into the house. At least I was about a foot taller than him. If he was some kind of house spying weirdo at least I had a height advantage. Besides, I've been dying to do some kind of flying-elbow-headlock move on somebody.  I'm just silly like that sometimes. Alas, this guy looked more like a librarian than a burgler.

"I'm the neighbour", he said politely, nodding his head to the next house " I didn't have a chance to come over before he left. Are they away?". Now, what the heck do you say? I didn't want to be an ass and tell him it was none of his business. I didn't want to tell a perfect stranger that yes, the house was abandoned and open to all types of thieving robbery. So, I told him a modicum of truth; that I was taking care of the house and would be staying there. I added that I worked long hours and didn't always have my car, so that was no indication of whether I would be home or not.  I wished him a Merry Christmas and shut the door. I locked it up super-tight again, and then turned around to two very large, very wide-eyed cats.

I'm not sure what it is with cats and doors. It's like every time there's a knock or doorbell going off, they run for cover like it's 1961 in Vietnam.  I've never seen animals that fat run so fast! I don't know if it was all running, or that they lost control somewhere between the front hall rug and the dining room table.  I thought the ugly one was going to slide right through the patio doors. The other one skittered around and then turned, charged the door and bounded up the stairs. 

I carried on watering the plants, and retrieved my scarf and coat. Both kitties poked their heads around the corner as I bent over to zip up my very fabulous boots. Why the hell do I waste my fabulous boots on two cats? Because I'm a good friend to a good friend, that's why.

Off I went, knowing that the kitties heart rates would indeed slow down.  Of course I had to enter the secret door code at least four-flipping times to get the door to shut again, but it's closed firmly now.

Even though she's away until only goodness knows when and dependent on good weather so the  ferry is able to run, I know that when my friend comes back we'll have a good old-fashioned kitchen visit. There's nothing like looking forward to a cup of tea with a really good friend to make you feel like Christmas. 

Christmas is for Canada Post

"What a lot we lost
when we stopped writing letters.
You can't reread a phone call."


~Liz Carpenter~

Dear Friend,

You know who you are. How are you doing way over there?  I hope you don't think that I've forgotten about you even though I haven't written in a long time.  I miss our talks, and knowing that you're just a few minutes away if I really need you.

Someone told me not so long ago that words are empty. Meaningless. Words on paper don't equal action. Maybe they're right. Maybe I, in particular write way better than I express myself in actions and spoken words. I guess we all have our strengths and weaknesses.

We're all so busy these days. Often it's just all we can do to get through our days from obligation to obligation, and isn't it odd that we really are hardest on the people who we love the most?

Anyway, I thought about you this weekend as I went about my solitary business. As I settled into my seat at the very back of the theatre to watch The King's Speech, I thought that you'd like it. I know you're not much for crowds, but I thought it would be nice if we were watching it together. It was a great movie, and as much as I've always not-so-secretly had a Hollywood crush on Colin Firth, I enjoyed Geoffery Rush's performance even more.  

You would have gotten a kick out of the blue-haired-matinee-set who mostly filled the theatre. They were so precious, I even had to forgive them their ringing cell phones. I mean, let's face it, all of that ringing was likely their 50 year old children checking up on them, and the poor dears have no idea how to answer the darn thing let alone dig through their coat pockets to turn them off.  You would have thought that the three old British ladies who cried at the end of the movie were adorable.

I was famished after the movie, and, since it was the dinner hour I gave into my craving for coconut curry and a beer.  You would have cringed at the loud music in the bar.  Britney Spears singing Joan Jett remakes is just wrong; Wrong, Wrong, Wrong.  Slithering Shakira punched up with some Quiet Riot and AC/DC...not my usual choice of ambiance. You would have been surprised perhaps to know that when I'm down and out, bone tired and sad that I go to this place to eat. I think I went there once last year. You see, I tuck myself in a corner booth and take a good look around. I know the menu, and what I like, so it's a quick in and out affair, but it gives me great perspective. 

I'm now convinced that all men under 50 in such places,  who are short and bald, with any bicep definition at all will wear shirts way too tight, and speak way too loudly. It's as if the great spirit has imbued them with an unexplainable sense of grandiosity. They think that everyone is infatuated with what they have to say. 

Also, I've decided that bald men with goatees look decidedly phallic - they look like large genitals or, bumholes.  Also, besides the cold beer, and the coconut curry, I know that I would never strike up any kind of intelligent conversation in such a place. Exactly what I was looking for.  I miss your company, and I don't really want to share my thoughts with anyone else. A mouth full of curry and beer is all I wanted, the loud music and obnoxious company just helped numb me out a little bit more.

The night before last I went wandering through a few shops because I just didn't want to go home yet. Sometimes it feels nice just to get out. I found this pretty china tea cup that I thought I might buy. It's always better to drink out of a nice china cup when you're sad right? Anyway, I took at look at the cup, and ironically, it was made in China. I miss you, but I'm not willing to put my health at risk by drinking out of a teacup infected with god only knows what kind of toxic material.  I went home and drank out of my glass mug instead and worked quietly away on my needlework.

We're ready for Christmas now. I just need to buy some last minute groceries to ensure the Christmas dinner traditions are complete; potatoes, turnip, and orange jello. Funny how jello always seemed to pull it all together for my family at Christmas time.  I think that says a lot about the family from wence I came....

The tree and decorations are up. Isn't it amazing how mesmerized we can be when the house is dark, and just the Christmas tree lights are on?  It makes me lonely and hopeful all at the same time. It was almost ten years ago to the day that my grandmother died. I always think about what I've done with my life since then. Kinda puts things in perspective as the years pass. Have I accomplished all I wanted? Have I been a good mother? How many more Christmas's will I have staring at this damn tree before bed time all alone?

I hope that you're doing well. I hope that your days aren't too hard. I'm glad that I know you have family around - that always helps.

Well, that's all for now. Nothing exciting here.  

Love you like waking up with no alarm clock,

Trish

Christmas is for Crying

"I am not alone at all, I thought.
I was never alone at all.
 And that, of course, is the message of Christmas;
 We are never alone. 
Not when the night is darkest. 
The wind coldest, the world seemingly most indifferent. 
For this is still the time God chooses.”

~Taylor Caldwell~

I don't like paper napkins. First of all, one paper napkin is never sufficient.

At the little Vietnamese place I frequent for weekday lunches, they have those little paper napkins that are always displayed a-la-Happy-Days-style in a stainless steel holder. 

As a group the little single ply paper napkins do the job, but you'd better not have to blow your nose.

Recently I met my friend there for lunch, and after we ordered - me my usual soup and she, a warm bowl of comforting noodles with curried chicken - we began to chat about all things girlish.  My friend confided in me that she was having a hard time this Christmas season. Things weren't going her way. On top of mom things, man-things were not going her way.  Ew. Bad combination.

Our meals came. Mine was just exactly what the doctor ordered on a blustery December day; hot soup, yummy, soft, noodles....mmmmm.  My friend on the other hand was presented with a substantial plate of large chunks of curried chicken sans-noodle-comfort-staple.   This was the tipping point.

She looked up at me, and said that this holiday was "sh!t". Then, as if on cue, came the text message that the man she was supposed to see during her holidays was not indeed flying back home. Her holiday became that much more lonely. 

Tears dropped into the huge hunks of curried chicken.  I could feel a heavy-weight round of, "men suck" coming on, and I scrambled in my purse to find something massive-crying-runny-nose-worthy for my friend to blow her nasal sorrows into. 

We commiserated about how it feels to be the person not chosen to spend time with during the holidays. How absolutely disappointing it is not to be the woman receiving the flowers, the jewelry, the date.  We did not however have to mention how great it is sometimes not to be the overworked, overstressed, overtired wife who also is not receiving flowers, jewelry or the "date".  That, in my opinion would be worse.  Trapped.  At least as single women, we have the potential for those things, for that loving relationship, for hope, and for a wine cupboard that never ends....For a wine cupboard that never ends. Wait. Did I say that already?

We nodded in agreement about how hard it is to be a woman holding "it" all together.  Working, paying the bills, homeworking, disciplining, Christmasing and trying to be "soft" and "lady-like", and not falling to bits because we're worn to the bone in every way. We laughed about how pathetic we are stuffing our own stockings, and that's not a metaphor folks. On the up side, I'll wake up to red suede mittens and french milled, lemon scented soap December 25th. Perhaps Santa may also drop into the California valleys and pick up a little something liquidish and deep red for mommy too.

We laughed and we cried. But it's not just our romantic relationships that the curried chicken tears reminded me of. Anyone who has lost a loved one during the holidays knows how difficult this time of year can be. We remember what it's like to have gifts wrapped -to and from- the great unconditional loves of our life wrapped and under the tree just days after they have died.

Every year, as the greenery, red ribbons and mistletoe come out, we are reminded of how empty these special holidays can be. How sad. How very lonely, even in the midst of social parties and merry making grief can leave a hole so big that it swallows everything else. Our grief, years later, blinds us in sudden, unexpected blustery gusts of emotion. After some time, we come to the realization that our grief makes the holiday that much more precious with the people we love now. 

Years ago I decided that despite my losses, I would be grateful for the friends and family that I do see during the holidays.  I would be thankful for the friends who have become my Christmas day tradition. It's hard not to long for that Norman Rockwell family waking up together Christmas morning. It's hard not to be disappointed that this is not the year Mr. Right makes my Christmas bright.  It's hard not to cry sometimes.

This year at the end of November I called a holiday truce. I would be grateful. Grateful for those people in my life who choose to spend some time during the holidays with my little family of two.

As we sat at that lunch table, my friend dabbing tears from the corners of her eyes, the wait staff came over to ask if everything was ok.  I wanted to pertly say, "NO! Bring her noodles damn it! That's why she's crying!", but I didn't think the waiter would get my humour, and I didn't think my friend would have been any happier.

So cry if you need to. Cry if your heart is hurting. Remember your blessings too, even if it's just a temporary Christmas truce....trust me on this one.

Christmas is for Christ and Buddha and Allah and Vishnu and...



"God is too big to fit into one religion"
~Unknown~

Last weekend, in a vain attempt to avoid anything stressful (hahaha I'm so deluded!), I turned to a fashion magazine as an avenue of escape.
The only time I read fashion magazines, tabloids, or as I like to refer to those genres, "smut", is when I'm having my pedicures. Let me digress from the heavy subject of this blog for a moment;

I maintain regular pedicures for two reason; first of all, the thought of having ugly, rough feet makes me weep, and it's pretty much the only time someone touches me without needing me to give them something back. God bless aestheticians! Amen and hallelujah! Rejoice!

Bi-weekly I settle into the giant massage chair with my tootsies soaking in a nice warm pedi-spa and lose myself in literary 'trash'.  Last weekend it was Elle magazine, (forgive me, I can't recall whether it was the Canadian or the American edition).

Yet I digress further;

Let me explain the phenomenon of the pedi-massage chair.  When I tried the third and most recent edition to my regular aesthetics watering hole, I was delighted to try the new seating.

I mean, what could possibly be better than getting a back massage and a pedicure at the same time?!  Pure indulgence.  "Worth every penny," I whispered to myself as I justified the additional ten bucks for the new and improved atmosphere.

For those of you not versed in the finer etiquette of Girldom, spas and all places aesthetics-like have an unwritten code of empress-like conduct.  It is as follows;

1)     Thou shalt not make unnecessary eye contact with other empresses.
2)     Thou shalt not speak unnecessarily unless it involves shoes, handbags, jewelry or man-issues.
3)     Thou shalt turn off thy cellular phone, or at least all sound, vibrating or other irritating options (note -silent texting is allowed).
4)     Thou shalt compliment all neighbouring empresses on their choice of polish colour regardless of how unflattering, tacky and atrociously trashy.
5)     No children beyond the waiting area, no politics, religion, work or other nonsense.

As my lady-of -McDishy's-own-four-foot-square section of Girldom handed me my trash magazine and cup of green tea, I gave the royal nod to her when she asked to turn on the chair.

A little side note here - When someone asks whether or not you'd like the furniture turned on, give consent only after demanding a training session and demonstration of what exactly the furniture will do when "turned on".

Enthusiastically, I nodded my head...oh yes!  Yes! Turn on my miracle massaging chair! Weeee! What a delight!

It began with some sort of mechanical readjustment, thumping and tapping once up, and then down the length of my back. "Just resetting, " I thought as I snugged deeper into the leather seat. And then there was stillness. Oh yah...feet soaking, green tea at my side and a great, light read. Bliss!

Then something went wrong.  Terribly wrong. A huge lump of something rather persistent slowly, but with great machine-like pressure arose under my tailbone and came to rest right there in that space between your thighs that only your lover and gynaecologist know about.  My eyes widened, "What on earth is wrong with this chair?" I thought silently to myself.

Wide eyed, I abruptly looked up to see if anyone was watching me.  Nope. The "little man in the chair" so to speak, then started to thump my back. I was bouncing around in that chair and suddenly wishing I'd worn my sports bra for the occasion. I had never experience turbulence in a pedi-chair before. Any second I expected an oxygen mask to drop from the ceiling. Forget the green tea, I would have scalded myself to death.

The button on the control pad looked straightforward enough, but slightly outside of what I consider to be a comfortable reach.  As I bounced forward, stretching my fingertips toward the controller, the lump between my thighs started massaging (quite nicely by the way) between my thighs. 

My fingers strained to reach the power button as my thighs were squeezed by what only can be described as side air bags. Squeezed so tightly together, my outer thighs were borderline painful as my inner thighs were saying a breathless "Hello" to Julio the massage lump.

I looked up again to see if anyone was witnessing my "massage" chair molestation.  This was getting embarrassing.  My back, neck and shoulders were being kneaded and knocked as my thighs were pinned in the seat and being massaged just above my knee to my butt cheeks - back and forth, back and forth.

Forget the reading. I had all but forgotten about what was going on with my feet.  Feet!?  I was worried I was either going to get trapped in the damn chair or have a giant orgasm.  It was a complete toss up between fear and a breathlessly gasped, "Oh-gawd!".

More than being upset that that flipping anomaly of  technological dimwittedness had ruined my very expensive pedicure, I was shocked at all of the other women shaking and wobbling and not-so-secretly getting their soft spots massaged en masse.

It felt a little dirty.  I felt a little deceived.  Although, in retrospect, I suppose I should have some gratitude for now knowing where to go should my normally vibrant sex life suddenly dry up and go the way of Toni perms.

So, last weekend when my lady-in-Girldom asked if she could turn on my chair, I politely declined and began to read my precious bi-weekly load of trash.

The article that drew my attention was not one about over-the-knee boots, or who was dating the hunk of the moment, or which stud-star of the moment has the best pecs, but  one exploring the recent, "Spiritual But Not Religious" (SBNR) phenomenon.

It is a well known, well documented, thoroughly explored trend that in lean economic times there is a swell in the number of people who turn toward their spirituality for meaning. I mean when things are booming, when the bills are paid, cupboards full, and children well-clothed and over-fed, who needs deeper meaning?

Through the ages plebs and scholars alike have delved into the black hole spiritual dilemma of what it means to be human. Since the swinging 60's it has become more common for people to explore religions other than their own traditions to find what 'works' for them - the individual. 

Increasingly religious institutions are on the decline while the number of individuals incorporating elements from diverse religious practice is climbing.  You could say economic hardship is a boon to introspection, existentialism; who am I if I'm not my profession, what does this mean to me, why am I here now, what is my greatest purpose, if God/Allah/Jehovah/The World is good, why am I suffering.....?????

Reading the Globe and Mail the day following my ritual pedicure, I was sidelined by another article on the decline of "religion" and trends in attendance at traditional religious institutions.

Recently my friends and colleagues have questioned my attendance in Dharma classes at my local Mahayana Buddhist temple. Was I searching for another faith, why did I need to do it, was I straying from my own faith, how can I introduce my son to other religious traditions when he's not solidly grounded in the history and stories of Christianity? Wow.

First of all, as a student of religious studies, and being raised in a protestant Christian family, I have a very strong belief (that I can intelligently argue), that exposure to other faith traditions can strengthen your own.  Not questioning one's own faith is not human nature. It's ok to questions god's(in my case) greatness when great suffering occurs.  If god is good, why are things so bad? When people of strong faith suffer loss, whether it be through death, divorce, job loss, or loss of self, they struggle more with their own spirituatlity than those who have not explored their faith, practice and traditions. After all, if you do the right thing, shouldn't you be rewarded instead of punished with suffering?

In my own experience, the concepts of the Four Noble Truths, the Noble Eightfold Path, and the Three Dharma Seals are concepts that helped me more deeply understand the concept of the trinity, the heart of
Christ, and "Love Thy Neighbour".  Meditation and mindfulness are wonderful practices that can only add to one's ability to function day to day in a more compassionate way.

Not everyone has studied religions. Not everyone understands or can sort out the differences between faith, spirituality and religion. But we all can be better people, and I think that's what's behind the drive of the ebb and flow of the SBNR trend.  We are all compassionate beings just trying to find our way.

The great freedom in debating religion, faith, love, and friendships is that they are all based in emotion and not logic. Yes, an inclusive study of history can answer a lot of questions about religions, but nothing about faith itself. That is the beauty of secular politics - logic. That is why we, as North Americans cannot comprehend issues in areas of the world where politics are faith based.  Faith equals emotion and emotion can't be argued logically. It can only be felt, believed and lived.

So, as I read my trashy magazines, and short articles on such intricate subjects of SBNR let me say that I balk at pop-culture, pandering to the here and now self-absorbed-self-help-pseudo-Oprah-spirituality that seems to have taken my generation by storm. 

I encourage everyone to go back to the source. Go to a temple, church, synagogue, mosque - discover the wisdom in our great traditions. Study. Question. Learn. Question. Practice. Question. Love.









Christmas is for Canoodling

"When you love someone,
all your saved up wishes
start coming out."
~Elizabeth Bowen~

Today I had to do some last minute over spending shopping.  I'm usually hyper- organized at Christmas time, with the entirety of my shopping complete before the end of November. This year, I still have a list;

Shopping with my son for his dad's gift

A little something extra for my Christmas day guests

Christmas Crackers for the table

Wrapping Paper

Wine

Ok, so it's not a terribly long list, but a list nonetheless.  As I browsed through the book store today, I had the pleasure of browsing and then stopping off for a coffee at Starbucks.  I took a look for those  cute squirrel mugs that annoy the heck out of me, but they must be sold out.  

As I was waiting in line for my coffee, I noticed a couple sitting next to an almost unbearably romantic display of Christmas blend coffee (please Santa bring me a pound of finely ground decaf Christmas Blend!). 

They were average looking people, around my own age (in other words very young and very sexy).  Both had their winter coats shed over the backs of their chairs, and were leaned in to one another like their conversation was world changing. Actually I think all of these shamelessly-romantic-soul-bearing conversations are world changing.  I mean, if we all were madly in love, we'd be a lot happier, and less likely to bound out of bed first thing in the morning to go to war. Just sayin'.

Anyway, the woman had her arms stretched out across the small cafe table, and her gentleman friend had his hand place snugly over hers.  Clearly, this man was "into her". Like really into her. Like in love with her, or falling in love with her. She wasn't some bimbo blond, or super model type, just an average woman like you and I. It was lovely and reassuring to see. Two average people sharing an extraordinary moment.

I'm sure I wasn't exactly staring at them, because I was still debating whether to have an earl grey latte, or a peppermint white chocolate mocha. Recognizing such intense emotion only takes an instant though, and boy oh boy, could I recognize it.  I would have traded both the earl grey latte and the peppermint white chocolate mocha to trade places with them.

In our notions, and in our media, Christmas is a time to connect with family and friends, with those people who love us forever and for always unconditionally. Christmas is a touchstone to all of those things in our history; what made us who we are.  But what happens when you don't have any of those people or things left? What happens when all you have left of that idea are memories, or faded dreams? You buy the flipping-peppermint-white-mocha-full-fat-extra-whip-and-chocolate-sprinkles pul-ease!

The weeks leading up to Christmas and the week between Christmas and new year's eve were always weeks to relax into.  They were weeks to snuggle in with your special someone; to plan, to dream, and to reconfirm your devotion to one another.

I didn't want to stare at this lovely couple. I didn't want to intrude on their moment. It warmed my heart to see a man be so caring, gentle and attentive to this woman.  Her outstretched hands held protectively under his, I imagined a lovely, loving life for them together.

I walked out into the crisp snowfall, cup in hand, hoping that everyone gets to know that feeling at least at Christmas time; that feeling of being loved, adored and protected.

Christmas is for Charlie Brown

“It always looks darkest just before it gets totally black.”
~Charlie Brown~

Good old Charlie Brown. "Chuck," as Peppermint Paddy so often referred to her downtrodden Pal.  Charlie Brown is the Hallmark of Christmas and Hallowe'en children's television. At least it used to be in the late seventies when I was a "children".

If you ever google "Charlie Brown psychology", you'll find a long list of resources which site Charles Shultz's comic strip as a study in human psychology - existentialism, personality types, depression, early psychiatry etc. 

I mean, "Good Grief", haven't we all felt a little Charlie-Brownish on occasion?  We feel left out, misunderstood, like the world just isn't on our side.  Calling out to the powers that be, we hear a thundering echo of silence in return.  Instead of a glowing white light, or soft, reassuring voice coming from the heavens, we're surrounded by Lucyss and Pigpens and little sister Sallys. "Good Grief!", indeed.

Poor old Charlie Brown.  He gets volun-told to direct a play in which none of the cast will take direction. He is sent out to find a Christmas tree to use as a prop in the play, and in the true spirit of Christmas, he decides to love a tree that needs the most loving.

Only after good ole' Chuck convinces himself that the group will criticize his choice, he abandons the decrepit little tree that can't even bear the burden of one shining Christmas ball. After his leaving, Charlie Brown's peers gather around, love the tree, and make it the most beautiful Christmas tree ever.  Charlie just doesn't get to see this or be part of making the tree beautiful.

Beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder. Receiving a gift is a gift to the person giving.  In being able to love the tree, the Charlie Brown children created their own wonder.  When someone wants to care for you, whether it is materially or spiritually, their is an alchemy in the exchange. The person giving and the person receiving are sharing an intimate ritual that gives meaning to both of their lives.

Wishing you the magic of sharing this Christmas.

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."

Chrismas is Cheerful

"It is requisite for the relaxation of the mind
that we make use, from time to time,
of playful deeds and jokes”


~St. Thomas Aquinas~

Ho-Ho-Ho and a bottle of rum, it was time for fun at the 7th annual parrot head Christmas party Friday night.  What a great way to relax and unwind as I prepared for my exam...or not. We ate, danced, caught up with old friends, and danced...wait, did I say danced? 

Although sporting a parrot on one's head might indicate intoxication, don't be fooled by appearances.  The damn thing landed there and I was terrified he would mess up my coif.

Being very un-buddhist (is that a word?) and true to my British Isles roots, I was symbolically holding my breath until I finished my exam to begin celebrating the Christmas season.    I was being anal retentive as it were. Today I wrote the exam, and am convinced that I've missed an entire page of "True/False" questions.  This coming from the girl who woke up the first exam week of her university career convinced she forgot to attend a sociology class the entire term. I actually went into the Registrar's office to confirm I was NOT registered for the class. I worry far too much. Breathe out.....

Friday night I briefly sported the holiday parrot on my head.  It was a great way to kick off the holidays, even though my holidays only officially began at 4:15 when I left the main shrine today.

I know I said I was all hyped up to cook those smores cookies that began the Toronto Star cookie advent. I even went to the grocery store this afternoon and bought the chocolate and marshmallows necessary for the I'd-love-to-have-some-more essential sinful recipe.  But I got lazy. I poked a hole in the marshmallow bag on the drive home and ate two.  That's as close to smore cookies as I'm going to get tonight.

I set to work getting out the Christmas decorations and cursing a blue, blue, Christmas streak under my breath as I wrestled with heavy Christmas boxes.  Teetering on a kitchen ladder and wrestling boxes overhead never really turns me on. It usually turns me on to my hot temper, a glass of wine and tidying the dusty, fallout. 

There are certain decorations that I look forward to every year; the porcelain cat that my Aunt Cindy gave me when I was a kid, the glass candy dish Aunt Candy gave me for my hope chest, the mitten dryer I bought the first year I became a mother and the giant snow globe that was a gift from my cousin David when we were in high school. 

As I unwrapped my white porcelain nativity scene, I was shocked to find that one of the three wise men was missing his head. Ironic no?  I thought about gluing his head in his hands as a joke, but not many people get my sense of humour. Besides that, I don't want to confuse the headless horseman with the three wise men. Cross referencing holidays in your decor is just plain tacky.The mistletoe and miniature village is all set up. There is pretty lit greenery on the mantle, and the tree is decorated. 

This year, in the spirit of what-the-heck-I'm-going-to-have-a-great-time-this-year-no-matter-what, I actually responded to a request for my Christmas wish list.  I forgot to add the Jimmy Buffett Christmas album, but that's neither here nor there. Reading the Globe and Mail this weekend I was humoured by their gift suggestions in the Style section.  I love the style section.  Pure indulgence. After stressing over my exam I was in no mood to read about the really important matters in the world (maybe tomorrow). I was happy to daydream about Michael Smith's butterscotch sauce-YumMe! I was taken in by the full page Mathew McConaughey Dolce and Gabbana add - well done considering I'm not a huge fan (of either), and I lapped up the article on Leonard Cohen's last concert of his two and a half year tour. Oh Leonard!!!

I spent some time daydreaming about which gifts I would choose if I were the , "Beauty Maven", "Fashionista", "Epicure" or, "Design Buff".  I read about holiday etiquette a la should-I-be-an-ass-and-tell-last-night's-hostess-that-her-chicken-gave-me-diarrhea question in the advice column. Russell Smith entertained me with his take on shirt stud sets. If you love dry  humour as I do, Mr. Smith never disappoints. Bourbon on the rocks should be the mandatory bevy to accompany his column.  I perused the Grey Goose Vodka holiday punch recipe and have decided on a grand "maybe" for that one.

Finally I read my horoscope; " This is potentially one of the best times of the year to explore ways to boost your cash flow.  The new moon in Sagittarius will encourage you to focus on turning your talents into dollars".  Well, as is usual for December, I'm broke, but my talents are limited. I figure I could either be a gin-soaked lounge singer, or a hooker.  Neither one seem to be options for me right now, although, a good long bath, and two glasses of wine, and I might come up with other creative and fun ways to make a buck that may involve a combination of the two. Wait, on second thought - bad idea. Maybe I'll just sell the Grey Goose punch in the parking lot at the mall.

So, to keep my Christmas spirits up today I did my decorating.  Got my mind set to pick up the last of my Christmas gifts, and am looking forward to having a chance to bake the smores cookies.

Stay tuned for tomorrow's annual Christmas buffet, the wrapping of gifts, pulling the cat out of the tree, and more singing Christmas tunes at the top of my lungs....speaking of which, may I recommend the classic Elvis holiday hit, "Santa Bring My Baby Back to Me". Trust me, you sing this tune once in front of the mirror naked, and you'll forget your to-do lists. After all, isn't that at least partially what the season is all about - relaxing into good company and laughter?

Christmas is all about Cookies

"Christmas is a time when you get
 homesick - even when you're home."
 ~Carol Nelson~

Bless me readers for I have sinned.  It has been two days since my last need to confess to the news gods.  Today (again) I succumbed to the temptation of convenience and the Toronto Star.

See, I had a couple of spare minutes this morning on my way to a meeting, so I popped into the McD's drive-through for a coffee.  Their coffee is, in my opinion better than Tim's, and the line-ups at the drive-through are way shorter. Getting cut off by some rushed mother in the insanely designed drive through line at Tim's doesn't really make me feel all warm and snugly and Mrs. Clausish.

Every day my best friend and I talk. At least once, sometimes two or three times. This is the best therapy ever, we laugh, we cry, we act like we're 12 year old kids. I take all the credit for keeping her marriage alive and well, and I give her all the credit for me continuing to want to get married.  I'm a devoted news follower, love politics, books, current events and wine. She who shall remain nameless could care less about the newspaper, may or may not vote, reads only as necessary (ie cooking instructions), and shops like a mad woman. We are perfectly matched polar opposites.

Today I woke up in a great mood. I've had two nights of relaxed, deep, quiet thinking about all things McDish.  I'm calm, peaceful, happy, and have vowed a right attitude for the entire month of December.  This Christmas I'm going to enjoy every second with my son, my aunts, my friends and even my colleagues. This year, it will be Christmas in my heart. Incidentally the liquor store having extended hours might be a really good thing to help me along the "Christmas-in-your-heart" path.

So, today as my best pal  was planning a brief personal shopping excursion, I was sipping my coffee all keyed up that I might get the time to read at least some of the news today.  I peeked at the entertainment section and low and behold, it's the Toronto Star's first day of cookie advent. There is going to be a cookie recipe every day from now until Christmas published in the Star. Ooh la la.

Cookies.  Right up there with wine, Bing Crosby flicks and big red bows. Mmmmmm-Cookies!!!  To top it all off, today's recipe was for smores cookies. Nothing better than combining the great-Canadian-love-of-camping-and-cooking-over-an-open-fire and Christmas time. Oh YAH!

There are a couple of commitments I have to complete before I can settle in and concentrate on all things Christmas. Sunday night will be my break-out Christmas celebration night. I'm going to bake those smore cookies in my flannel nightie while singing along to my 8 Christmas play lists on my iPhone. Nothing says Christmas like being decked out in a flannel nightie licking the spoon to the dulcet tones of Peggy Lee and Andy Williams.  That almost sounds a little sexy doesn't it? I imagine that flannel nightie, licking the spoon business could possibly be a seasonal addition to the Joy of Sex.

So, as much as I love to bake, and my best friend doesn't, today we laughed at all that makes our homes Christmas at this stage in our lives.  As she gets ready for her family Christmas photo which will require loads of patience and some assistance from mother's little helper, I will be gearing up for an exam.  The countdown to fun is on.

I remember my family cooking and baking up a storm the entire month of December. That was back in the day when family lived close by, and regular coffee and chat visits were expected.  One of my aunts made the best shortbread cookies in the world. My other aunt made sugar cookies that I still think are the best in the entire world. My mom made my dad's favourite butterscotch and coloured miniature marshmallow squares, and my favourite, "Hello Dollies".  My grandma made mincemeat tarts that I could never imagine putting past my lips as a child, and the most divine butter tarts.  There were cookies and squares and treats galore.

Christmas was the only time of year we got nuts and tangerines and every flavour of pop under the sun.  We settled in at night to watch all of the Christmas specials; Charlie Brown (still my very favourite), Rudolph, Frosty the Snowman, and it just wouldn't have been Christmas without the subtle transsexual-like flair of Anne Murray.

So, this year, even if I need a bit of a massage from a drinkipoo, I will get back to taking the time to visit, enjoy the company of the people I love, and relearn how to relax with Charlie, Rudolph and Frosty.

Hmmmm....I'd better get my wish list posted so Santa knows I've been a good girl.

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.