Chicks Shouldn't BBQ

"A man can be short and dumpy and getting bald,
but if he has fire, women like him."
~Mae West~

Women love looking after their man. You can tell how great a man is to his partner by how well he's taken care of. When my friends and I are in relationship bliss with our significant others, we cook for them, buy them little gifties, let them have all the man-cave time they want and think it's cute, sexy even. When a man looks after his woman, she gives it back in multiples. Pun absolutely intended.

Cooking becomes more than making sure he eats, it's a pleasure watching him enjoy his food. His nodding off while lounging at home in the evening is so sweet. Watching him help your kiddo with their homework or going outside to play catch melts your heart. When a man is gentle with his woman, everything is bliss.

...and then there's reality...

I think that's why we have raw meat and flames.   When a man's manliness gets in the way of relating - he doesn't listen, he's insensitive or his head is generally hidden up his butt, there's always the BBQ. You know what I'm talking about when I say "man-dumb" don't you ladies? I mean MAN DUMB. As in, you could tell him in eight bazillion ways about how you feel and he still wouldn't get it and doesn't seem to care to get it- that's MAN DUMB. Not complimenting you in your new outfit that was clearly bought for a special night out with him - MAN DUMB. Pointing out how you could have done everything better - cut your hair, baked cookies, spoken to your boss - and then get defensive saying he's just trying to help - that's MAN DUMB.

We don't want you to fix things boys, we want you to wrap your big strapping arms around us and say it's ok. We want you, as well groomed and smelling pretty as you may be, to be our Manosaurusrex. Anything else at the pinnacle of girl-crisis is MAN-DUMB.  We have our girlfriends for strategy. That's who we commune with in the war-room of life. We need you for moral support and unconditional adoration.

I once had a man tell me that he adored me. Only now do I realize how very sweet that was. At the time I thought it was MAN DUMB for not saying I love you. I get it now. Very sweet.  I also had a man call me a bleeping c word. I think secretly he was really in love with me too. How could he not be, what with all of my feminine charm and grace?

So, meat and flames....what gives? Well, I think when the battle of the sexes has reached a long, cool, stalemate, the last bastion of hope is the grill. There's something very sexy, primitive even about a man feeding a woman. It's like he went out and slayed the beast and is protecting his woman.  Sorta. Maybe that's just when we're delusional post-period, or when we're absolutely desperate to justify spending time with someone who seems like an an alien from another planet? Someone who apparently either can't hear, read non-verbal cues, or appreciate that he's in a relationship with a woman, not his mother?

It doesn't matter how MAN DUMB your man has been.  If you see him out there, grilling, over a red-hot flame - you can't help but be turned on a little bit. I mean, can you?  Just think of it, Mr. Sexy-I've-worked-hard-all-day-but-I'm-still-takin'-care-of-my-baby.....give him a break ladies.

So, Chicks Shouldn't BBQ. We should meditate on the meat, er, I mean testosterone standing out there on the deck, and smile knowing what we get for dessert. After all ladies, we all know that summer is the best time for shakin' up the bacon that the Manosaurusrex brought home.

Have BBQ - auditioning for guest chefs...

You're a Weirdo

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

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

We’re so cool.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Number Nine; 80's love ballads.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Madam




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

~Anonymous~


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas is for Cursing at Cookies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas is for Cleaning

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


~Lillian Day~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WikiWhat?



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


~Winston Churchill~



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

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

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

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

Welcome to Monday morning Toronto, and enjoy your coffee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This Buddhism is Very Serious Stuff

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

~Author Unkown~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After my traditional coffee and newspaper outing....

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

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

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

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

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

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

First You Cry and then You Cut Your Hair

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meeting the Parents & the Perils of Super Glue

~ There are no grades of vanity,
there are only grades of ability in concealing it ~
Mark Twain

I don't even know where to begin ....

This is the second week that my son has been away from home this summer and I get all out of sorts when he's gone. Just when I'm getting used to not having to cook, not having to go to baseball, not having to do anything, it's almost time for him to come home.

Last night was the first night during the two weeks that I've had to myself. No work. No friends. No having to be here or there or doing something for someone else.  There was a baseball game however, and I wanted to go see my son play. So, on my way (unusually unrushed), I stopped to pick up a bag of soil for a few summer bulbs that I have neglected to plant, hoping that they will grow just enough to feed the bulb for next year.

So, there I was, happily home after a baseball game with my 30 litres of  soil waiting to be used up outside on the patio.  I tidied a bit, and potted my bulbs. Before closing the patio doors and getting ready to snuggle in for the night, I stood back and admired my work. I needed to get ready for bed, after all, tomorrow was a big day. I was taking my friend's mother to the art gallery and out for lunch. Since we had only just met a few days before, I was a bit nervous about being on my own with her.  In addition to the we've-just-met-jitters, I only speak English with very limited French and Spanish.  She  speaks Dutch and French  and limited English. My spoken  french (that I thought was not so bad until a few days ago actually) stinks.  On top of that, I wasn't going to be driving my own air-conditionless car. I would be driving my friend's car - a car I have never driven before. I laid awake reminding myself to adjust the mirrors.

I awoke with the sound of my alarm. It felt good to sleep in a little bit, and looking forward to spending the day with this lady at the art gallery. I pressed the snooze button for half an hour. Indulgent bliss. It would be a good day I decided, and then I got out of bed.  I staggered to the kitchen in my light blue summer nightie and put the kettle on for a cup of tea.  I opened the patio door , and it looked like it was going to be a beautiful day.  There was a nice cool breeze, and the birds were chirping. I filled up the watering can and watered the plants. To my relief, the squirrels (I hate squirrels) had left my newly potted bulbs alone, and in that moment, the world was good. Just in that moment.

Back into the bedroom I went to pull out my outfit for the day, and to the bathroom to brush my teeth. The kettle long past boiling switched itself off as  I showered and dressed.  I was relaxed putting on my eye makeup, thinking of when I bought it with my friend for her wedding.  I strolled back out into the living room, hoping to boil the kettle again and finally have my first cup of tea.

To my left, just outside my patio door, only the width of a pane of glass away from Leonard, my killer giant cat (ok, lazy, spoiled cat), was a squirrel with his little, guerrilla warfare paws clenching one of my bulbs...and chewing it!!!!!! I ran to the door and the little commando took off with the darn bulb! Finally he dropped it (it's an elephant ear bulb about the size of a small teacup) and ran up a tree to be with the rest of the little hairy satans. ARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!! I hate squirrels. I retrieved the bulb, shoved it back in the dirt, and went in to find some cat hair to put over top in an effort to keep the vigilante squirrels away. I hate squirrels.

No time for tea. No time for breakfast, a quick coat of my fingernail polish and out the door. Oh. Wait. My sandal looks like the lining is separating. I'll just give that a quick dab of super glue, and it'll be right as rain.  Right. I rambled through a buffet drawer, careful not to smudge my nail polish,  and found the just-in-case bottle of super glue that I always keep in stock, just for occasions like these. I'm so smart.

My pretty black and white polka-dot sandals needed some TLC, and I was going to give it to them.  Oh poop. No hole in the super glue.  In the same drawer as the super glue is a collection of miscellaneous "speciality" utensils. My fingers blindly grabbed a salad fork. Perfect.  I poked one tine in the top of the glue tube, and holy hell, grab your grand kids, was that glue ever under pressure. No sooner had the fork pierced the tube than the glue escaped like Mexicans over the border, and right into the corner of my left eye!!! (I still haven't figured out how to truly convey a screaming sound with words, but if I could, I would do it right here!)Ahhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!! Blinded in one eye, with the fork lodged somewhere in the wall, and the tube of super glue stuck to my left hand, I ran back to the bathroom.  Oh! My! Gawd!

The glue had mercifully missed the white of my eye and my contact lens, but had managed to spray under my eye, on the inside by the tear duct, and on every single one of lashes on the bottom of my left eye. I very calmly said the f word.

Now, here's the irony. As a funeral director, I have had the very uncommon experience of using superglue on human skin.  On purpose.  So, I knew that after it dried it would be easier to peel off.  I walked back to the door, eye glued shut and glue tube adhered to my left hand.  I pried the glue out of my hand, and fixed my sandal.  It's important to note here that the sandal has a high heel. In other words, it slopes down toward the toes.

I walked to the kitchen with the tube now glued to my right hand, eye still glued shut and said a good old fashioned Gaelic curse as I threw my emergency superglue into the trash. Damn glue. Damn fork. Damn shoe. I went back to the washroom, and as any practiced embalmer would do, I took to the tender flesh around my eye with spring forceps (aka known in the real world as tweezers). I think the skin around our eyes  is roughly the same composition as foreskin. Boy does it stretch!!! 

I could only get most of the glue out of my eyelashes by actually pulling my eyelashes out. My carefully applied eye make up no longer looked so very carefully applied. I looked like I had three months worth of morning boogers in the corner of my eye, and that I'd been crying for as long.  With most of the glue removed, and my sight still in tact, I made my way back to the door, slid my feet into my sandals, and then remembered - MONEY! I need to go get some cash.

Off came my left shoe, off came my....off came my....Oh for flip, frigging, mother of gawd's sake!!! I glued my foot inside my cute black and white polka dot sandals. I wanted to cry. I wanted to kick those flipping sandals through the patio door, past my newly planted bulbs, right up the tiny arse of one of those satanic- rodent-devil squirrels! After what I'm sure the neighbour who was walking his dog outside of the patio doors thought was a very elaborat dance routine fit for a Vegas stripper, I decided that I would just leave my foot glued to the sandal.  After thinking about it some more, and staring at my foot hoping that by the grace of some funky, white, hoodo, voodo magic my foot would come unglued, I decided that I'd better free my foot in case the occasion required. With my luck I'd end up being required to take off my shoes for a strip search after rolling my friend's car and scaring his mother half to death on the highway.  I finally managed to pry the ball of my foot out of my sandal with a butter knife. Note: bring your own cutlery next time you eat at my place.

The entire way to the house, I was trying to chew the superglue off my fingers so it wouldn't look like I had the worst case of eczema on the planet. The sandals looked great by the way.

Got Gratitude?

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

PART I - The Fine Art of Bitching & Moaning

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PART III - What Keeps Me Afloat

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

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

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

PART IV - What I'm Grateful For

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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