Classmates

This is a quick post - not in the general sarcastic spirit of On The Cork, but most sincere.

My friend died yesterday. He was an MMA trainer, and one of the few "good guys". We went to school together for 9 years, and shared many moments together as most kids do.

He lived his dream, married his best friend, and died all too young at 37. This is why we should never hold back saying, " I love you". Say it every day, as often as you can.

You were a bright light Shawn Tompkins, and you will be missed.

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?

Robert Plant and the Joy of his Band

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


~Ralph Waldo Emerson~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rheo Thompson Cherries and Other Things That Make Me Happy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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 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.