A Gnomeo and Juliet Family Day

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

~George Bernard Shaw~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Madam




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

~Anonymous~


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bikini Waxing - Grooming or Sport?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bikini Wax!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Freaking waxing! 

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

Happy VD. Be smooth.

Top Ten Bath-Time Albums

"Sorrow can be alleviated
 by good sleep, a bath, and a glass of wine."
~Thomas Aquinas~

10. Nazareth -Geatest Hits


9. Meatloaf - Bat Out of Hell

8. Jimmy Buffett - Buffett Hotel

 
7. Leonard Cohen - Dear Heather


6. Andrea Boccelli - Vivere


5. Leonard Cohen - The Essential Leonard Cohen


4. Chris Botti - When I Fall in Love


3. Bonnie Raitt - Road Tested


2. Marc Cohen - Listening Booth 1970


1. Leonard Cohen - Live in London

Intuition vs. Quantifiable Stuff

"The only real valuable thing is intuition."
~Albert Einstein~

Will there always be a gullible right-wing-processed-cheese-eating population? Or someday, will there be a euphoric tipping point when the veil of our great-Canadian-political-Oz is unveiled before our very eyes?

The good old Globe and Mail did not disappoint this weekend.  There were a lot of different viewpoints to consider.  Margaret Wente, god love her, had the chutzpah to write about "Health Scares". 

The headline, "If only there were a shot for irrational fears; Vaccination panic is strongest among educational liberal elites - the same demographic that votes green, drives a Prius and eats organic" captures the essence of her article. Great spirit forgive the human race for evolving into beings of consciousness. 

Wente refers to a study by Andrew Wakefield published in The Lancet about links between childhood vaccines and autism.  She sites sources that  point to the faults in Wakefield's study. Wente writes, "The public is fed a steady diet of scare stories cooked up by rogue scientists seeking publicity, tort lawyers looking for a payday, environmental groups hungry for both publicity and funding, and gullible media ever eager for a good bad story."

Fascinating. I would say the public is fed a steady diet of highly, but very discreetly cooked up truisms by the powers that be, tort lawyers looking for a payday, environmental groups hungry for the harmony between humans and the planet and their share of the pittance of funding that's just enough to placate a generally apathetic public and pretty-gullible-mainstream-media-turned marionettes by the great governing Oz. To think otherwise might be naive - non?

Ironically this very article is sandwiched between a story about a study by Kevin Milligan and Michael Baker (UBC and U of T respectively), that concluded longer parental leaves did not have a positive impact on child development. They measured temperament, achievement of milestones, motor and social skill development. Isn't that convenient for the government to use in defense of not paying parental leaves?

Now, in the case that was presented in the Globe, I do have to favour the government based on what is written in the article. Two parents taking leave at the same time and expecting to collect social benefits kind of has the stench of greed about it. However, I think that any well-educated liberal/conservative, Prius/Hummer, Anti-vaxer/gullible pharmaceutical zombie will admit that you can find a study that backs any argument.  Data can be skewed, and outcome measurements may be a nice neat dish served on a silver platter to the decision makers in the land of Oz, but we all know in our gut what is bullshit and what is not.

Wente accurately admits that the concern over vaccinations stems from distrust of the very profitable, and therefore influential pharmaceutical industry, or Big Pharma.  Wente says that "anti-vaxers" are hyper parents who are, "...obsessively worried that the world is full of hidden poisons that can harm their kids. They worry about the sun, or lawn spray, or trace amounts of chemicals in plastic toys".   GAWD forbid we care about the environment and how we impact it. What on earth are people thinking being concerned about toxic chemicals coating the shiny little toys that little Billy chomps on as he cuts his teeth?  Fools.

She is critical of this left wing hoo-hoo group who doesn't want their infants crawling around in fields of DDT with no studies to support trusting their intuition.  Somebody please do a study to support that.

Wente's headline - "If only there were a shot for irrational fears." McDish's headline - "If only there were a shot for  greedy goombas"...or something like that.

The headlines in print, on the web and on television were all over the unrest in Egypt this weekend. It all began with a university educated Tunisian whose life ended in protest over unfair governing.  Another headline in the Globe read, " In a span of minutes, a country goes off-line; Government orders Internet service providers to shut down all connections, isolating 80 million people and revolt's leaders."

Hmmm. Yep. If we mindlessly swallow Ms. Wente's simple minded attack on non-vaxers or whatever condescending name she prescribed  to them, we may not be too far behind Egypt in the grand scheme of things.  Money talks sweeties, and Big Pharma didn't get the name Big Pharma because the CEO's wear red plaid lumberjack shirts and stand over 6'3". 

This is my concession; so called Big Pharma does support non-profit work in healthcare, and profit itself is not a dirty word. But greed is.

Money whispers in the ear of our family physicians, our insurance companies, our government policy makers, and even in my ear. I do not profess expertise in vaccine science or autoimmune health issues (I bet there a heck of a lot of studies that link increased autoimmune deficiencies with environmental factors), but it would be truly ignorant to think that we, the general public can see any more than through a tiny crack in the theatre curtain of what is really going on politically.  Check out movies like Wag the Dog or Charlie Wilson's War if you need to get a feel for what I'm talking about.

Don't get me wrong. I'm thankful for the likes of antibiotics, ibuprofen and the pill.  I'm also a big fan of that inner voice we are all blessed with as human beings. That voice, or, I guess you could call it intuition like Ms. Wente does. You know, it's that little thing called a conscience (yah, yah, I get the little lingquistic irony there, just like pen is envy that we all learn in English 101) that tells us what is fundamentally right or wrong in any given situation. 

Winterlicious and Ladies Who Lunch

"Food is not about impressing people.
It's about making them feel comfortable."
~Ina Garten~

During Winterlicious, Toronto restaurants roll out their red carpets to battle-worn-post-December-holiday-surviving-troops and offer up some interesting menus at fabulous prices. It's a great way to bolster business, and give the general public an opportunity to savour fare that perhaps they would never otherwise be inspired to taste.

Each year I try to rally the troops for a Winterlicious outing, despite the bitter, dreary, grey cold of January. We are still fabulous despite the ice and snow and slush are we not?! In years past, there have been as few as three, and as many as 15 of us for what has become our traditional "Ladies Lunch". There were six of us for lunch this year; Claire (the young newlywed), Darleen (the new lady), Tish (mother of the bride), Myself (event coordinator), Candy (phellow phan) and Cura (baseball mom extraordinaire).

This year our destination was Toula, a restaurant with a fabulous view from the 38th floor of the Westin Harbour Castle Hotel, just at the foot of Yonge Street.  When I first stepped into the "lobby" of Toula, I instantly thought that there couldn't be a bad seat in the entire place. 

As we took our seats at the table, I chose the one with my back facing the window so that my friends could all enjoy the view.  As it turns out, I think I had one of the best views because I had a clear view of the beautifully snow covered Toronto Island.  With just a slight turn of my head, I could see the ice broken up on the lake, and the airplanes taking off from the island airport.

Unfortunately, the "new" lady, recently imported from Vancouver had a north-westish view of a tall condo  that was still under construction. Methinks the view of the tarps and industrial cranes did not contribute to the ambiance.  I can only imagine that the view of city lights at night would far outweigh any food disappointments. I'm now fantasizing about an evening dinner, looking out over the water reflecting the lights of our city.

I talk too much. It is my great desire to help people get to know one another. I love connecting people who otherwise would not meet but would be great friends, mentors and networking gurus.  I love seeing people enjoying the company of others.

Winterlicious has never bowled me over with the food itself. I've gone to places such as the Rosewater Supper Club, Lolita's Lust, and  Bodega.  None of them have charmed me based on their culinary flare alone, it is the atmosphere and the company I keep during the meal that creates a lasting impression. 

Had I been at Toula to strictly concentrate on the food, I would say that I would have been disappointed. The salad was well presented, but the gorgonzola dressing lacked umph. It's gorgonzola for goodness sakes - go for the gusto!  The two walnut halves and small piece of cheese on the salad fell short. If veal medallions are on the menu, it's a sure bet I won't be considering anything else. The medallions that I was served were more like mother-of-veal-chunks.  Veal should not come in "chunks". That's just my opinion.  The best part of my entree was the polenta.  How can you really go wrong with that? The asparagus was also lovely.  My strudel was cold, but heck - it was strudel nonetheless. 

Even though I was underwhelmed by the food, I was impressed with  the company of the women who shared my table.  Despite what I can't decide was either very careless service or very European service and mediocre food, I was very happy to be sharing this January afternoon with such wonderful people. Some new friends, some long-time friends, but friends regardless.

I had a chance to catch up with Tish and take a peek at Claire's wedding photos. Finally. What  a beautiful mother and daughter team!  After five years of parrotheading, this was the first time that I really had a chance to get to know Candy.  Cura, my comrade-in-the-stands-sunflower-seed-sharing-baseball-mom, joined us for her first Winterlicious Ladies Lunch. It was nice to get to know her a little bit better too. Darleen, what can I say? I remember how challenging it is to just pack up and move and re-establish yourself with new friends and cities.  I'm so glad that she came out and that we had a chance to meet her. I hope that there were some great, supportive connections made around our lunch table.

Winterlicious may or may not help you find a great new favourite spot to eat.  I've heard compliments and criticisms; it's a great way to try new places and food, the patrons don't tip well and the service is bad because of it.  There are benefits and drawbacks to everything.

Yes, the service might not be great. No, the patrons may not tip well because of the tempting lower priced menu. BUT, we're fortunate enough to live in a city where the food industry has been savvy and generous enough to host an event like this.  AND we're fortunate enough to live in a city where customers support the food industry. So, why not call a bit of a truce?  Enjoy the new menus, take a few food risks, and, at the same time, enjoy the company of good friends.

It's January after all folks. We're in the dead of winter. Take refuge in the port of good food, wine and company. Bon appetite!

McDishy's Version




"I'm an impulsive man, one who believes in making his own mistakes
rather than regretting things not done..."




~Barney's Version by Mordecai Richler~

Today the sun was shining and the birds sang. Metaphorically that is. Well, I'm sure the sun really came out and the birds really sang somewhere. But today that was how I felt inside.

After a very, very, v-e-r-y long week, all I wanted to do today was curl up in a ball and hide under the covers.  But, at the crack of 9:15am I hauled my flannel clad self to the kitchen and made a cup of tea.  I perused my fan mail email, checked my phone, and continued dillying around for another couple of hours. I love non-rushed dilly time.  There's far too little of it in our society at present.

After singing my lungs out in the shower to a variety of hippity-dippity fun 60's mix songs and double washing my flowing locks, I wandered around the house for awhile in my underwear and socks.  Lunch with the girls (all fabulous by the way),  followed by a movie - that was the plan for the day. Simple enough.

I connected with my movie-mate, and via the interweb, we decided on a theatre and a time. Perfect. By the way, have I mentioned that this week I've started to lose my mind in larger than normal bits? 

Off I zoomed to meet my gal pals.  My movie mate was kind enough to speak to whomever one needs to speak to regarding free parking (Sergio, in fact is whomever you need to speak to) and I had a short, crisp walk to the restaurant along the lake at the bottom of Yonge Street.

As I was walking through the parking lot, I almost walked into a cute little red car. What better way to end up with broken limbs and further brain damage than to walk into a cute little red car? I heard someone call my name. My Phellow Parrothead Bob stopped to say hello (he was dropping off his phabulous wife Candy to our ladies luncheon).  It was nice to be stopped by a friend in the city. This, after a decade, has truly become home, I thought as I finished my chilly walk up the stairs and into the warm lobby.

As the group of us talked, over an almost three hour long lunch, we learned about one another. We "networked" regarding careers and resume writing. We discussed health, spirits, husbands, mothers, memories and by doing so set about weaving together the threads of our friendships.

After our lunch, I zoomed back across the city to meet my friend for our movie. He got the seats at the restaurant and I went to the box office to purchase our tickets. We have a pattern you see - movie tickets first, which leaves time for a chat over a drink before we head in to get prime seating.  Not a bad plan. 

Now, I know that I'm a bit flighty sometimes. Despite my very serious and organized outsides, I'm a veritable tangle of anxiety lately on my insides.  As the great pharmaceutical companies try to sort that out with help from Beringer and Sterling, my little mass of grey matter is wiggling around like murky jello trying to cling to some sort of sanity. 

Surprise, surprise.  I read the movie listings wrong. I like to think that they were listed incorrectly, however, I can't swing completely into insanity by blaming it on poor transcription. Or can I???

The movie that was showing during the time slot that I wanted wasn't the one that my friend and I had agreed upon. Oh well. "Two for Barney's Version", I said, thinking that I would likely be coming back to see the flick solo. Actually, I was thinking, "Shit. Shit. Shit." Oh well. 

After having read the book, I expected to be not only disappointed in the movie adaptation, but very disappointed in the movie adaptation. A colleague of mine who has outstanding taste in art, literature and film said that she didn't care for the movie, and I based my decision to not go and see it on her critique. I'd just watch it at home. No sweat.

My movie mate, who has the same twisted taste in literature as I do when it comes to humour, was going to be disappointed, or so I assumed. I had gone on and on about how much I liked the book, and that I thought seeing the movie might would be a let down. I had convinced him to read the book first.  I was a big, fat, novel-reading hypocrite with two tickets to see Barney's Version in my pocket when I wandered into the restaurant. "I have a surprise for you, " I said, as I sat down grinning what I was hoping to be a cute yet convincing smile.

The movie was outstanding. Paul Giamatti is my new Hollywood boyfriend. I'm sorry Colin Firth, you tall, handsome, sexy, pensive pot of British man-pie, you've been bumped.  Although the movie did not capture the entirety of the book, it did capture the essence of Barney, his father, and the emotion that transcends language in our relationships.  That, or I shouldn't have had the vodka slushy drink before the show. No, it definitely wasn't the drink. This was a fabulous movie.

You see, if the director/producer/writer/whomever had made the mistake of trying to capture everything in the book, it would have flopped. If you've ever read Snow Falling on Cedars by David Guterson, and then watched  the movie, you  know what I'm talking about. There is often a discrepancy between the emotion of the written word and what is captured in moving images.

In this case, the layers that propped up Barney's life were stripped away in the making of the movie, and the show concentrated on his human nature.  Third child, hilarious forged letters, and cutting wit be damned - this movie was great.

Even if you see the movie, I would still recommend reading the book. Described in one review as having, "...an embarrassment of riches...", Barney's Version is a truly great work of literary art.

Driving home, I flicked on the oldies station. Barry White's, "My First, My Last, My Everything", came on.  I was taken back to my days with the coroner. Being  the facetious woman that I am, I would turn the volume up and do a quick little dance around my cubicle. Barry White's uber-sexy voice would drape across the office like leopard print satin sheets;

"We got it together didn't we?We definitely got our thing together don't we baby? Isn't that nice? I mean really, when you really sit and think about it. Isn't it really, really nice? I could easily feel myself slipping more and more away to that simple world of my own. Nobody but you and me.We got it together baby."

Just thinking of that, with me being a goof, and my mentor laughing her pants off at her desk, and the coroner shaking his head, well, we really do have it together. As together as it gets at any given moment in time I suppose.

The irony of that song playing in that atmosphere is one of those things that's hard to give voice to. Language doesn't quite capture the absurdity of thinking that any of us ever have it together especially as the contrast between the buttery voice and lyrics filled the spaces in that office between suspicious and untimely deaths that were neatly recorded on paper and stacked chronologically. A very nice way to create the illusion that we have it all under control.

Each of us have our stories happy and sad, funny and heart breaking. All of those stories are bundled up somewhere in that lost land that is being disputed by the pharmaceuticals, the drinks, the girl talks,solitary drives and the constant re-scrambling of how we define who we are.  The stories that get tucked away somewhere in between 9-5, the groceries, flossing, getting to lessons and practice and church on time.

Barney is the balance of light and dark in all of us. This movie will prompt you to remember all of the friends you ever had who made you laugh and cry, who held your head up, kicked you while you were down, and all of the stuff in between. Barney's Version will make you thankful for what you have, for what you've lost, and for what we all remain hopeful for

What is it that we all hope for?

You know what it is. As Barry White would say in that sexy baritone voice of his, "You're my reality, yet I'm lost in a dream. You're the first, my last, my everything."

Mazal tov.