Things that aren't worth it for $1000, Alex

Worth: the quality that renders something desirable, useful, or valuable; material or market value.

So we agree that worth isn't always measured in money, right? Though it certainly can be - that giant coffee at Starbucks on Saturday afternoon was definitely worth it.  In a related story -  BC shiraz is surprisingly tasty and affordable. But enough about the positive. For now, let's focus on the negative, shall we?

Things that just aren't worth it, at least to me, these days:

1) Pretty much designer anything, except coffee drinks. I like pretty things as much as the next person, maybe even a little more so. But my ass is easily suggestible - walking past a bakery makes me gain five pounds, so $250 jeans are out. And while my tastes in dream home decor can run to the crazy expensive, I just can't bring myself to actually spend two weeks salary on anything a cat can throw up on. But surely that hanging lamp you've been admiring would be a safe choice, you say? You haven't met Tallulah. Where there's a will, a hairball is sure to follow.

2) Trying to save money by refurbishing an old reliable something instead of just buying a new one. My personal Waterloo was a gym bag. Or, more accurately, about half a dozen old gym bags I decided to spiffy up in favour of buying a new one. Into the washer they went. It was only there, in the clandestine confines of my high efficiency front loader, that they revealed their traitorous natures. Or, more precisely, their hidden cardboard inserts, which turned to pulp, burned out the pump, and clogged the drain line like cement. Cost of new gym bag - $40. Cost of washer repair - $297. 

3) A 1 AM pitcher of margaritas, a 2 AM donair, and a 3 AM text to your ex asking if he's still up. Anything that leaves you dehydrated, suffering from heartburn and with a deep sense of shame can't be worth it. And that's just the donair.

4) Saffron. Look, I'm sorry,  Giada et al, I know your nipples get hard over the world's most expensive spice, but all I got was a stain on my top that cannot be Shouted out. And it only tastes slightly interesting. Not worth the time it took to track it down. Sure, it's pretty, but so's Ryan Reynolds, and ounce for ounce, I probably could've steeped him and added him to my orzo for roughly the same kind of money. And he would look awesome in my kitchen.

5) Flying more than half way across the country for sex. Sure, you fancy yourself a carnal Amelia Earhart, off on a sex adventure with a jaunt in your step and a carry-on full of unmentionables.  Oh, you can try and tell yourself it's more romantic than it is, that it's some sort of long distance relationship. Chances are, it isn't; it's a booty call that requires photo i.d. It might seem worth it at the time, especially if you're in a dry spell and there's a seat sale.  But trust me when I tell you this: you may have saved some money, but you'll be paying for it long after you get that Visa bill.

6) Convertible bras. Nearly $50, and I should have known by the name. The tag says they call them that because of all the different ways you can wear them. The tag lies. Convertible means the top goes down. Like down around your waist. Look, as regular readers will know, I love my boobs. There are days when I feel they should get their own reality show. But much like the majestic silverback gorilla, it's safest (if not the most ethically responsible) to enjoy them under controlled conditions, possibly from behind 6-inch thick reinforced plexiglass. Thanks for nothing, La Senza. And sorry, Reverend.

7) Taking a chance on something scary. I know, I know. I've written about the importance of going full Edmund Hillary, planting a flag on the summit of Mount You Only Live Once, grabbing life not so gently by the balls and not living with regret and what-ifs. Guess what? I'm an idiot. We all have our own internal chance-o-meter, a finely calibrated scale that measures risk versus reward. For some, it could be trying sushi for the first time. For others, it might be skydiving. It doesn't really matter what it is, the odds are the same: there's a 50% chance you'll end up loving spicy tuna, and a 50% chance your chute won't open. I should have stuck to the spicy tuna.

8) Chopping things into uniform size when having a dinner party. This seems incredibly random, even for me, and likely has a lot to do with how much Food Network I watched this weekend. Your friends don't care if the apples in your tarte tatin are all the same size. If they do, they're assholes. You're wasting butter pastry on assholes. Think about that. The only thing worth worrying about is running out of wine, not whether your pancetta is evenly diced.

9) Lying to your mother. She knows. Every time. Even on the phone. Especially if it's a lie about flying half way across the country for sex or how much you paid for the recently hairballed decorative pillow.

 There are lots of things in life I think are worth it - well-written hardcover books, imported tulips in the middle of winter, giving up a few hours of sleep to have a heart to heart with a friend. But do yourself a favour - just buy the damn gym bag.

Dear Santa

Dear Santa:

It's been awhile, and that's my fault. I see you in the mall sometimes, and I wonder if you still recognize me. But you're always so busy, posing for photos and ho ho hoing, and it never seems like the right time to come say hi. Anyway, I've wanted to get back in touch, but I don't think the guy on Twitter claiming to be you really is you, so I thought I'd try this.

We used to talk all the time. Well, not talk, exactly, but we had an understanding.  I'd write, and even though you didn't always respond, I always knew you got my letter, because on Christmas morning, exactly what I wanted would be under the tree! Dolls! Games! A puppy!  Most of the time, you hit it out of the park. Most of the time. I think we can both agree that the Barbie Pool Party with floating chaise lounger wasn't exactly a success. It looked awesome, but the second Barbie hopped into that lounger, she sank like the Titanic. Had it not been for Ken's quick thinking (and, let's be honest, his rockin' six pack)  she surely would have become a statistic.



I know it's my fault we stopped talking. Actually, it was Nancy Drew's fault. Of course you sometimes need to send stuff on ahead for our parents to store in the back of the closet.  Otherwise, you'd never get the sleigh off the ground. I can see that now. But I didn't understand it then. I was emotional. And felt a little betrayed.  I probably didn't handle it very well, and I shut you out.

Well, Santa, I'm back. I'm sorry I ever doubted you, and if it's not too presumpuous, there are a few things I'd really like this Christmas.

1) A bottle of something nice and sparkling. French, ideally, although I'm an equal opportunity bubble quaffer. That way, when the two weeks that encompass my birthday, Christmas and New Year's end in the lacklustre fuckery I suspect they will, at least I'll be able to toast 2011's ass out the door with something more refined than Baby Duck. Which is about what I'll be able to afford by then, since I've done approximately zero shopping.

2) I'm not big on electronics, but there is one gadget I'd love to have. Do you have some sort of little filter I can attach to my tv that, everytime a Kardashian comes on, it blocks them out with video of puppies and kittens snuggling together? Sort of like a v-chip for vapidness? That would be awesome. Also, since you have the technology, something that would change Amy Adams' voice so it doesn't make me want to puncture my own eardrums would be great, too.

3) Someone to cook dinner with. Not all of the time. Not even most of the time. But once in awhile would be awfully nice. He must have decent chopping skills and not mock how much I love my salad spinner. Should also really like good cheese and have strong convictions about pizza toppings. I don't think I trust people who say "Oh, it doesn't matter - get whatever." How can it not matter? How?

4) That new Pyrrha pendant with the hand and quill on it. My mother will lose her mind if I ask for another one, and this one is just so lovely. Some girls like diamonds, some prefer pearls, but give me a pendant made from an 19th century wax seal any day.

That's about it. Sure, there are lots of things I'd enjoy (the Complete Calvin and Hobbes, new cookbooks, a higher metabolism), but there's not much I really need. So do what you can, but don't stress out too much, okay? I know how you get. We're a lot alike that way. And hey - I promise not to look in Mom's closet, just in case. Glad we had this talk - I've missed you.

Life at 350°

Chocolate espresso cookies. Rustic apple tart with salted caramel sauce. Gooey, chewy brownies. Cream cheese-stuffed pumpkin muffins with pecan streusel. Coconut chocolate chunk blondies. Most of us like to think we're good at something, great even. I'm good at baking. I even have two professional series ovens in my house. One is a stainless steel convection number. And thanks to a recent visit to my childhood bedroom, the other is avocado green, powered by a lightbulb, and 35 years old. But damn it, if I wanted to make teeny tiny cakes right now, my Easy-Bake Oven by Kenner is good to go. Seriously. It is. I tested it.

My love of baking can be traced to my grandmother. She was like Yoda with a rolling pin; she'd show me the way, but I had to find the baking force within myself. As a "that's not what the book says to do" kind of kid, I couldn't in good conscience just go all freestyle in the kitchen. Could I? Nanny showed me I could. She'd say "oh you know - just mix it until it's ready" or "add a little more". But how much more? " Some," said Nanny. She taught me to follow the rules, but to have the confidence to break them. I know experts say baking is scientific and all about precision, but I don't remember her ever owning actual measuring spoons - a tablespoon was the big spoon, a teaspoon, the little one. And even with her imprecise, often arbitrary, way with a recipe, everything came out wonderfully.  Nanny was an alchemist in an apron, but science be damned, she did it by instinct. And my kitchen is the better for it.

I've been on a bit of a baking bender these last few months. Not sure why. It's either boredom, some sort of mixing bowl-centric OCD or, according to the internet,  a batter-based substitute for the kids I haven't had. Care for a brownie, Mr. Freud? It figures I'd pick a hobby that can expand my ass. I bet those guys who make sci-fi monster models in their basements don't have to worry about that; they worry about whether they have enough snacks for the "Battlestar Galactica" marathon and whether they're ever going to get laid. Hey - wait a second...

As confident as I now am when it comes to going off (cook) book, it hasn't all been smooth sailing. There were the blueberry muffins that resembled nothing so much as little purple hockey pucks. Who swaps the salt and sugar canisters around after months of them being in the same order? Who?! There was the sour cream banana bread that just did not play by the rules. I'd made this recipe dozens of times. But this particular loaf just would NOT cook in the middle. For someone with a serious overripe banana issue, the thought that I'd touched them for nothing was inconceivable.  I kept baking and testing, testing and baking. And still, still this bitch stayed nearly raw in the middle. It would have taken an act of nuclear fission to finish it off.  Then, just last weekend, there were the tiny, seemingly perfect, mini apple pies. It was my first time making pie dough from scratch, and they showed such promise - the top crust was a beautiful, glistening, flaky gold, the filling was a cinnamon/butter/apple symphony. But then, then there was the traitorous bottom crust. Still doughy, too thick,  not completely cooked through. Disappointment, with an egg wash. I knew, instantly, the reason, and I learned a valuable lesson: don't drink wine with the neighbours and then come home and expect to roll out perfect 1/8 inch pie dough. But you know what?  Eating just the tops of three tiny apple pies is still a pretty successful way to spend a Sunday evening.

There are so many things I want to try. On my short list: chocolate blackout cake, cinnamon pull-apart bread, a coconut chiffon concoction so tall I'll need a step-stool to frost it, a lemon meringue pie for my Dad.  I'd also like to try my hand, just once, at baking without the kitchen looking like a sugar-coated crime scene afterwards. On apple pie weekend, you'd swear the Pillsbury Doughboy had met his end is some sort of ritualistic killing. There did seem to be a LOT of Saran Wrap, so maybe Dexter did it.  I don't know what happens; I get all my ingredients out ahead of time, I  have those little prep bowls, I have a cookbook stand. And then, before you can say "beat until smooth", it happens. Cream cheese on my glasses, a nutmeg-scented cat, melted chocolate on the ceiling. Every damn time, it's like Flour-pocalypse Now...

Despite my less than Martha-esque methods, I've still learned many things over the years. Sometimes, I don't even realize I know how to do something until I'm doing it, and then it's as though Nanny's hands are there, on the rolling pin or the wooden spoon along with mine, reminding me of a lesson long ago. And while I'll always tweak and change and try new things, when it comes to baking, some things will always be true: it's vital to turn off the mixer before you lift it out of the bowl, even the worst day can be made a little bit better with the smell of vanilla and brown sugar, and my colleagues will eat just about any baked good I can come up with. Oh, and not only does the Easy Bake Oven make excellent teeny tiny cakes, it's a stylish avocado green addition to any kitchen.

Hey, It's Okay!

One of my favourite features in one of my favourite magazines is an often funny, sometimes poignant, frequently bang-on list of little things we all (well, most of us) do that we tend to beat ourselves up over. Call 'em what you will - neuroses, tics, quirks, whatever. The goal of the list? To tell us all that, when it comes to our little peccadilloes, "hey, it's okay!"  Why do I love it so much? Probably because I have a championship belt in beating myself up. But, lately, I've really been trying to give myself a break.

Lately, I've realized it's okay...

...to bake an entire pan of brownies or squares just because you want one, and then pack up the rest to take to work. It's also okay for the size of  "one" brownie or square to be somewhat loosely defined.

...to sort of hate the girls who leave the gym looking all cute and presentable, with nothing more than a slight glow to show for their efforts. I look like I need an ambulance.

...to give "supermodel face" in the mirror when trying to pick new glasses. Everyone knows they look much better when you do that, even if you'll never actually make that face again once you buy them.

...to forego cleaning the basement/putting away the patio furniture/storing your summer clothes, all in favour of a cup of tea and a terrific book.

...to say a completely un-ironic "absolutely" when the barista asks if you'd like whipped cream on that skinny Pumpkin Spice latte you just ordered. I said skinny, not anorexic. Besides, it's a serving of dairy, right?

...to feel resentment every time you settle up at the dry cleaners. I feel like I'm bailing my clothes out.of the drunk tank.

...to choose not to patronize restaurants that haven't spellchecked their menus. What else are they not paying attention to? Besides the spelling of "nacho's"?

...to have one guilty pleasure tv show you are unapologetic about loving. I've said it before - I can't get enough "America's Next Top Model".

...to have one guilty pleasure tv show you couldn't be more embarrassed about if it were German scat porn. You'll always be my dirty little secret, "Vampire Diaries".

...to admit that you'd really just rather stay home on your couch.

...to have incredibly fond memories of people you never want to see again.

...to question the sanity of people who continue to find Adam Sandler funny. Holy fuck - I watched 20 minutes of "Just Go With It" last night, and it was like being felt like sensory deprivation, only the sense I was being deprived of was humour. Thankfully, I tapped out before what I assume was the obligatory Rob Schneider cameo.

...to believe 100% that the scale at the gym is rigged in a diabolical attempt to guilt you into paying a crazy amount of money for personal training. See also...to estimate the weight of your new sneakers as approximately 12 and a half pounds.

...to have two weeks off but not post a thing on your blog. Inspiration, as it turns out, cannot be found in Pumpkin Spice lattes. They should really put that on the sign; I would have saved a lot of money these past two weeks.

I should note, the "hey, it's okay" concept does have limits; it's not a get out of jail free list. For example, stabbing a co-worker in the eye with a fork because the way they pronounce "tomato" makes you crazy is NOT okay.

Thinking about it, however, is perfectly acceptable.

Indelible ink

I got my first tattoo at 21. I'd wanted one for years, and I was pretty sure I wanted one of an Egyptian symbol. No, I'm not Egyptian, but I'd been fascinated with Egyptology since I was a kid (still am), and, not being a butterflies and hearts kind of girl, it seemed the logical choice.

I'll admit, many of my friends at that time were getting tattoos like some people get flyers in their mailbox. It was still sort of alternative, kind of cool, something bikers did far more than 20 something girls who wore Doc Martens and stayed up late writing English papers. But the lurking idea, the germ of an inky committment, had, as its impetus, like so many decisions do at 21, a boy.

Specifically, a boy I had loved who loved tattoos and who now loved someone else. So what's a girl to do? I'll show him, I thought - I'll finally get that tattoo. I'll admit the thought process may have been somewhat compromised by Halifax's legendary draught wars. So, drawing in one hand and friend for moral support in the other, off I went. And it turned out perfectly. Granted, half of it had disappeared 7 years later thanks to the use of less than top-notch inks, but one re-inking later, the Eye of Horus remains on my back as a nod to both a childhood obsession and twentysomething hubris. And did the boy ever see it, you ask? Yes, but only much later, after another boy, a truly lovely boy, had fallen under its spell.

My second tattoo came about 5 years ago. It had been a particularly tough year emotionally, and things were finally starting to balance out. To honour both the year that was and the better times sure to come, I chose to have the Sanskrit symbol for "om" inked on my wrist. It means many things to many people but, to me, it has always meant "balance". And like a talisman etched into my skin, I often find myself touching it during tough times. It's my badge of strength and perseverance, and it is not lost on me that a tattoo I got for deeply personal reasons is also the only one of my tattoos that is visible to everyone.

I got my third a week ago. It was the tattoo I thought about the least, it is not the tattoo I had spent the last two years thinking I wanted, but it is the tattoo I will love the most. It means many things to me, but mostly, it is for my grandparents. Even though Grampy has been gone nearly 17 years, and Nanny more than three, I don't think a day goes by that I don't think about them. The most obvious tattoo to honour them would have been a tractor and an apple pie, but I'm not that literal. Not that an apple pie tattoo wouldn't be all kinds of awesome. Even though several people have now seen it, I'm not spilling what it is. But I think it's lovely, and personal, and sexy, and, hopefully, nearly healed, because I can't take the itching. 

I know tattoos aren't for everybody. Every one I've dated has loved them on me, I think, though, oddly, no one I've ever dated has had one, at least not until after we parted. I love them, both on me and on other people, but they are, or at least should be, a deeply personal choice. And I think the reasons people have them are as varied as the tattoos themselves. Some are markers of specific periods in one's life, some are reminders of loves past and present, some are because tequila seemed like a good idea, and some just look effin' cool. I see mine as reminders of who I am, and of who I was. They're my story, on my skin. And you can't get more personal than that.

When love comes to town

I no longer remember when I first realized I was in love. It was many years ago, when I was still a teenager, and consumed with childish things. And then, one day, probably through a friend, we met. And that was that - for many years after, U2 was it for me.

"The Unforgettable Fire" showed me that music could be about something and not just be pretty boys in pretty videos singing songs I could 80s dance to. And on a hot summer day, in my parents' rec room, their performance of "Bad" at Live Aid made me want to be the girl in the crowd more than anything in the whole wide world. In some ways, I think it's my musical litmus test - if I reference Live Aid, and that performance, and you don't understand why I feel the way I do, a tiny piece of me will always be a mystery to you. 

Oh sure, we weren't exclusive. I had flings, meaningful relationships even, with many others. The Waterboys and I had something really special, REM and I had a situation, Crowded House very nearly split us up. Even the Sisters of Mercy and I kept company for a while, until it became just too much work to take that damn eyeliner off every night.  But always, there in the background, like a favourite t-shirt, waiting for me to realize I could depend on them, were Bono and the boys.

"The Joshua Tree". My God, I loved that album. The first three songs on that record are probably my three favourite U2 songs. I cannot, to this day, hear "Where the Streets Have No Name" without picturing a rooftop, the crowds gathering below. Or without dashing to my stereo, cranking the knob, and having a sing-along, like I did about 10 minutes ago. I moved out of my parents house about six months after this album was released, and I've kind of always seen it as the soundtrack of my first taste of  independence. And my parents were probably only too happy to get a reprieve from the near constant playing. I'm pretty sure I wore out at least one turntable needle.

For a little while, with the video for  "With or Without You" fresh in my mind, and my hormones at critical mass, I was convinced the boy I had a crush on looked just like Bono did in the video. Did he? Probably only the tiniest bit. Did it get him to second base? Definitely yes.

"Rattle and Hum". I saw the movie more than once in the old art-house movie theatre, and the album was in heavy rotation at our apartment. Whenever the boy (he of the short pony tail and vaguely rock star swagger) came over, and my roommates weren't home,  he'd take out the album and set the needle to "All I Want is You". A few candles and track 17 and I could very nearly imagine I was kissing Bono. I wonder how many countless makeout sessions that song inspired? Even now, if a man were to put on that song, he'd likely have me at "You say you want/ your story to remain untold". But the combination of being 20 and the sexiness of the boy you like taking that album out of the sleeve, lifting the arm and setting the needle to just the right track? Hard to beat, even more than 20 years later. This may be the real reason behind vinyl's comeback. 
 
As I grew up, and they experimented, it was not always easy going. "Zooropa" and "Pop" left me cold, and I started to wonder if we'd grown too far apart, our young love coming to its inevitable end.  But our separation couldn't last, and we reconnected over "All That You Can't Leave Behind". It reminded me of why I'd loved them once.  

We've settled into a deep friendship now, the passion of my youth giving way to a more comfortable, and comforting, connection. I always like to know how they're doing, even if we don't have as much in common as we once did. But on Saturday night, it'll be like catching up with an old love you never quite got over, and I will be 15 again, and 19, and 23. And when I hear those jangly guitars on the opening to "Where the Streets...", I'll be singing, and dancing, and maybe even crying a little. And then, finally, I will be the girl in the crowd. I cannot wait.

What I did on my summer vacation

We didn't take a lot of big vacations when I was a kid. Both my parents worked, we didn't have a huge travel budget, and I'm sure the idea of listening to my brother mimic everything I said (everything I said) in the backseat (in the backseat) wasn't a big road trip selling point. But there was one summer vacation I still remember vividly all these years later.

Not long after my brother was born, Mom and Dad left him with my grandparents and took me on a road trip to New England. Our primary destination - Santa's Village, in Jefferson, New Hampshire. It probably should have seemed weird it was warm enough for denim short overalls (suck it, Laurie Partridge) at Santa's place, but I assume my parents told me it was his summer residence or something. Like Castel Gandolfo is for the Pope, but with elves.

I wasn't one of these kids who was scared of Santa, but I also wasn't overly interested in perching on his lap, in the summer or at any other time of the year. Photographic evidence would suggest my thoughts were a candy cane swirl of reluctance, suspicion and a keen awareness that, even though it was only July, my cooperation could make or break my Christmas.

There was, at some point, a train. This pint-sized locomotive left its quaint station and took its merry band of passengers down the track and into a wooded area. I was now five and a big sister - bring on the solo train ride! My parents agreed, and I was all aboard for adventure. Except...part way 'round the trip, somewhere deep in a glen that looked suspiciously like where Hansel and Gretel were last seen, the train stopped. I don't know if this was due to the little engine that couldn't give a rat's ass, or if this temporary standstill was merely a way to make the passengers feel like they were getting their parents' money's worth. All I knew was that I was in the middle of a creepy forest on a hunk of unmoving, brightly-painted metal. We were sitting ducks. There was only one thing to do. I went rogue.

I hopped off that terror train, and I ran. I ran away from that train like Harrison Ford in "The Fugitive".  Sobbing and flailing, I ran until I saw signs of civilization again (likely about 100 feet up the track),bursting to safety to see my waiting parents wondering what the hell I was doing. They seemed neither overly concerned about my predicament nor impressed by my dramatic return, especially when the traitorous little tank engine steamed into the station about 12 seconds behind me. They didn't know. They hadn't been there. They hadn't seen the things I'd seen.

As a kid, I loved monkeys. And on this trip, there was a zoo with a big enclosure full of them. Disclaimer: my father loves animals, really he does. He's brought home more dogs than Paris Hilton. It's just that, well, he loves to tease them.  He truly believes they enjoy it. He would be wrong.

This one monkey in particular kept reaching through the bars of the cage. And when someone would offer their hand, he'd slap them or grab their wrist. Dad saw this as carte blanche to beat the monkey at his own game. So when the monkey next slapped Dad, Dad pinched his little toes. The monkey, as monkeys are wont to do, went bananas. He snatched the brand new (like an hour old) baseball cap right off my father's head and pulled it back through the bars. My father tried coaxing, he tried bargaining, he tried cursing, he tried faking the monkey out. He may have tried to trade me for the hat. Mr. Monkey was having none of it: he sat just out of reach, screeching, and he ripped that hat to shit with his little teeth, eyeballing my father the entire time with a "That'll teach you, jackass" glare.  My father was incensed, the other visitors were amused, the monkey was victorious. My father learned a valuable lesson that day: just because Duke, our black Lab, thought Dad was hilarious, that did not mean all creatures great and small (and angry) agreed. I, too, learned a valuable lesson: never wear a brand new hat to the zoo.

I don't remember returning home from that vacation, though I doubtlessly had a few new freckles, at least one episode of car sickness, and several mosquito bites. But I do know this: while many people look back fondly on idyllic summers spent on a lake, or at the time they rode their first roller coaster, for me, nothing will ever say "summer vacation" quite like a runaway train and a revenge-seeking primate.

Scenes from a garden

So I haven't posted anything in well over a week. I can explain. I've been spending most of my free time trying to make my back yard look presentable, and less like the overgrown crackhouse lawn it was starting to resemble. I like gardening, really I do. Except for a couple of things. The sun, which, ironically, makes me wilt like a delicate flower. And the bugs. I know no one, except four year old boys and medical examiners on crime shows, really LOVES bugs, but I dislike them immensely. Creepy multi-legged bastards. Actually -  I've changed my mind ; I fucking hate gardening.

I started off well, sometime in mid to late April.  Did some raking. Bagged some leaves. Used a snow shovel to put leaves in bags. What? It was still leaning against my house. Oh, like yours was tucked away in the shed come March 21st. Liars.

May 6 - May 27:  Pretty much no progress.  I started so well, then rain happened. And season finales. I did buy an eensy iron gnome for the garden. So not no progress, exactly. Gnome progress. Also manage to actually poke self in eye with sharp stick. Buy some flowers. Hope they don't die before I get a chance to kill them.

Notice bees buzzing around giant bush at edge of deck are abnormally large. Remind self to google actual geographical range of "Africanized bees" later.

May 27-29: Sun, finally. Need to finish pruning, raking, pulling and generally tidying up nature. Curse self for not searching "lawn boy" on Kijiji.

Mother, a prolific gardener, visits and asks why I haven't done more weeding. I tell her it's because I wasn't sure which ones were weeds. She looks at me the way she did when I told her I was quitting band. Not having grandchildren yet she's accepted, but me not knowing astilbe from rag weed gets me a throat clear and judgement face. But she did arrive with loads of my favourite flowers, so judge away, Mommy.

Buy more flowers. Try to determine if 100 litres of potting soil is enough. Why is it measured in litres? I'm not planning on drinking it.

Despite wearing awesome bug-be-gone bracelets, get a bug bite. On ass. Gardening in ripped to shit jeans not the smartest idea I've ever had. (Mother's note: "I told you so").

May 31 - Finish rest of "clean up" before the (allegedly) fun flower planting stuff. Involves digging around in crevices in rock wall. Wonder if bats spend their downtime sleeping in rock walls?  Become convinced attack by sleep deprived bats is imminent.

Hear rustling in overgrown area at back of property. Do we have badgers? Brandish rake.

June 1 - Inform woman at gardening centre that "Calibrachoa and Million Bells are actually the same thing". Feel smug. Buy more flowers.

 Use plant stake and twine to tie up droopy bush. Giggle to self while doing so.

Take break when SPF 60 ends up in eye. Between sharp stick and sun protection, gardening had now resulted in vision impairment.

Call mother to announce "The rhododendrons are coming! The rhododendrons are coming!" Am like Paul Revere, in pink Crocs.

Put flowers in planters. Try and craft interesting yet harmonious colour combinations. Abandon this plan when back starts to ache, firing plants into pots willy nilly, aesthetics be damned. Wonder if this is how some of the outfits at Wal-mart happen? 

June 2 - Salamanders are cute. Slugs the size of a Vienna sausage are not. Buy more flowers.

June 3 - Buy new sandals. What? I have enough damn flowers.

June 4 - Try to describe the type of ivy I'm looking for to garden centre guy who, despite all signage to the contrary, does not appear to actually be "Farmer Clem". Neither of us can remember the name, but he knows what I'm talking about and no, they don't have any. Is it German? No. It's sort of like Swedish, but not. Wonder if there's such a thing as Austrian ivy.  It would be quite robust, but try to goose the housekeeper every time you turned your back.  Buy more flowers.

June 6 - I think I'm done! Dirt under fingernails may be permanent, as is back ache. But when I come up my steps after work, and everything is blooming, and smells all flowery, and there are what surely must be ten thousand different colours on my deck to greet me, it's all worth it. Except for that bug bite on my ass...

Q & A

One of my favourite magazine features is the Proust Questionnaire in "Vanity Fair". Should you ever find yourself on "Inside the Actor's Studio", James Lipton will likely accost you with his version of the quiz. However, despite what Mr. Lipton may tell you, it was not invented by Marcel Proust; it was merely popularized by him. And I'm pretty sure neither Proust nor his contemporaries would care one bit that your favourite curse word is "motherfucker".

Since Graydon Carter has yet to call (does he have my cell number?), I've taken it upon myself to provide my answers. Lucky you.

What is your current state of mind?
A bit wistful. And peckish.

What is your idea of perfect happiness?
I don't know that perfect happiness actually exists, but a summer evening, just after twilight, on my back deck, lanterns lit, with a beer and people who make me laugh is pretty great. Or at the shore, summer evening, just after twilight, with a beer and one person who makes me laugh.

What is your greatest fear?
Losing my parents.

Which historical figure do you most identify with?
Every one always wants to answer this with "Napoleon" or "Cleopatra" or "Caligula". So what the hell - Dorothy Parker. But with less drinking and far fewer affairs. So a debauchery lite Dorothy Parker. All the bitchy wit, fewer carbs.

Which living person do you most admire?
Jane Goodall. Judy Blume. Carol Burnett.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
Procrastination.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?
An unwillingness to experience new things.

What is it that you most dislike?
Spiders. With one exception. See below.

What do you dislike most about your appearance?
My profile. Or my knees.

What is the quality you most like in a man?
Kindness. A curious mind. And nice forearms.

What is the quality you most like in a woman?
Self-sufficiency. And a dirty laugh.

What is your greatest extravagance?
Perfect, tiny, overpriced pastries. Heaps of flowers for my deck. Sleeping in far too late on the weekends.

What do you most value in your friends?
A sense of humour and a slight tendency towards, and love of, the inappropriate. And to plagiarize from recent Questionnaire subject Albert Brooks, that they dislike the same people I do.

What is your favorite journey?
Nearly every year, my Mom and I make the drive from my house to my parents' house for Christmas, usually on the 24th. Every year, she says she want to get home early. And every year, we stop countless times: for Starbucks' holiday drinks, for a few more stocking stuffers, for a present for the dog, to see if my Aunt has good snacks and tea on. Every year, the 90 minute drive takes us at least 4 or 5 hours. And I love it.

What is your most treasured possession?
My grandfather's shaving brush and my grandmother's cameo. A distant third is the bath tray that allows me to read books in the tub.

What do you consider the most overrated virtue?
Restraint and patience are in a battle to the death over this one. One I wish I possessed more of; you can decide which one...

Which words or phrases do you most overuse?
"Awesome." "Fuck." "Don't bite your sister."

On what occasion do you lie?
Unfortunately for some, not often enough. But almost always when asked by an ex-boyfriend how my love life is going. And after about picture number 65 in most wedding albums.

Which living person do you most despise?
Is the guy who decided to fuck with Scooby Doo back in the day still alive? Then him.

What or who is the greatest love of your life?
Victor Saunders.

When and where were you happiest?
Very likely The Amalfi Coast. 2006. Before the limoncello. After the limoncello. Just perhaps not during the limoncello.

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
I'd be a mom.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?
Buying my house.

Which talent would you most like to have?
 I would love to be able to sing. Not Celine style, just in tune. Or play the piano.

If you could change one thing about your family, what would it be?
The panelling in my parents' rec room.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
Leaving a hospital room for the last time.

What is your favorite occupation?
Spending hours in a large book store, with easy access to coffee.  Or exploring some place I've never been, armed with a well-written guide book and/or a witty travel companion.

What is your greatest regret?
I try not to have too many, but spending so much of my 30s doubting myself would be a big one.

What is your most marked characteristic?
My sense of humour. Or my boobs. My most unmarked characteristic is rampant sentimentality.

Who are your favorite writers?
Gabriel Garcia Marquez. J.K. Rowling. e.e. cummings. Carolyn Keene.

Who is your favorite hero of fiction?
Charlotte, of "Charlotte's Web".

How would you like to die?
Many, many years from now, two hours past twilight, on the Amalfi Coast. After a glass of limoncello and regaling my tablemates with the dirtiest joke they've ever heard.

What is your motto?
"Life is to be enjoyed. Eat the damn cupcake". Or, occasionally,  "Just shut up and kiss me". Depends on the day. And the wine tally.

And in case Mr. Lipton is reading this, mine rhymes with "rock chucker".

Anything you can do...

My friends and I have spent a lot of time lately lamenting how things seemed better in our 20s. How many sentences have started with "when I was 25" recently? I don't think a single one of us would want to be back there; most of us were idiots. Or dating them. But we've been romanticizing it all the same. Here's the thing - I don't think there's a single thing I did better then than I do now.

1) I'm a better friend, I think. Sure, we've all been the star of our very own self-centrefold, but there's a maturity and a depth to many of my friendships that's based on more than just borrowing clothes and meeting guys. And the classic younger woman one-upmanship friendships are largely gone, which is a relief; it was exhausting.

2) I'm a better daughter. I didn't really know my father's parents, but I was 25 and then 39 when Mom's parents died, and I think losing your grandparents well into adulthood is totally different. Seeing your parents lose their parents, as an adult, really drives home how it changes a person.

3) I'm a better cook. Of course it's partly because I have more experience, partly because I discovered good cheese, and partly because I now own a mezzaluna, a food processor and a lemon zester. But mostly it's because I've realized there are few things more enjoyable than making a meal for others in your own home. Granted, there was a method to all the nacho madness: George the really hot waiter at JJ Rossy's.

4) Sex. At 25, it's often about hormones and conquest. Now it's self-confidence and self-awareness and the knowledge that some things should not be rushed. Unless you want to. Or if Anderson Cooper is on in 15 minutes.

5) Speaking of which, I'm a better girlfriend. I've figured out that wanting someone to be something they're not works about 0% of the time. Besides, I pretty much wear my own foibles like this season's statement necklace, so I can't expect anything different from a partner. Granted, this one's theoretical, since all the single men around my age want to date 25 year olds. Irony, party of one.

6) I'm smarter. I know what I don't know,and I know when I'm wrong. And believe me, in my mid 20s, I knew that I was wrong about nothing. Except guys. And clothing choices. And which types of booze should really NOT be mixed.

7) I'm better at failing. Or I'm trying to be. I've never been a perfectionist, exactly, but I used to let failure eat at me. Now, I really try to give things over to a combination of timing, luck and trying my best. Sure, there are those rare people who always get the guy, and the job, and the great concert tickets, but for most of us, that isn't reality. And that's okay. I think dealing with the little failures and disappointments (and trust me, between 25 and now, there have been many) puts the bigger ones into perspective.

I don't mean to sound like I'm done, that I've learned it all and have become the version of me I'll always be. So thanks, 25 - you were a lot of fun, but I never want to see you again. And I have every intention of revisiting this when I'm 60 and marvelling at how little I knew in my early 40s.

Pomp and Circumstances

I will need extra coffee to get me through the day on Friday, and it's all because of a tiny boy wearing a romper, playing on a blanket while his mother looked at him adoringly.

I was not yet a teenager when Prince Charles married Lady Diana Spencer nearly 30 years ago. But I was at the perfect impressionable age, where the thought of becoming an actual Princess was just about the most romantic thing ever. So I got out of bed that summer morning, probably around 5:30, and watched, my attention held rapt, while a 20 year old girl walked down the aisle towards a future that seemed, to me, to be pretty much perfect.  When she kissed her Prince on the balcony, I was sure they really would live happily ever after.

Like many women my age, I was fascinated by Diana. I have the scrapbooks at my parents' home to prove it.  She was glamourous, and beautiful and, not so very long after her storybook wedding, a mother to the cutest little boy.  I remember seeing the pictures of she and Charles leaving the hospital with their new son, she beaming as she held the tiny bundle. And I vividly recall seeing the family, when William was no more than 9 or 10 months old, posing for a photo op during a state visit, the baby determined to crawl his way off the blanket while dozens of photographers snapped away. He, as expected, stole the show, smiling and kicking and testing his chubby little legs with a step or two while Diana held his hands and smiled.

By the time I was in my late teens, I'd figured out that being a Princess wasn't all castles and tiaras. But I remained fascinated by Diana, and by the bond she so clearly had with her boys. When she finally separated from Charles, I was in my 20s, and I realized this woman, not so very much older than me, could finally have the life she wanted, instead of the life that we'd all wished for her. And then I watched, crying, as the terrible news of her death broke, thinking how those boys were far too young to lose their mother.

So I will set my alarm extra early on Friday morning. Not because I still believe in fairytales, but so I can see the young man who took his first tentative steps while holding tight to Diana's hands now take much steadier steps towards his future. I will watch because, nearly 30 years ago, I did still believe in happily ever after.  But mostly, I will watch William marry Kate because I wish his mother could be watching, too. 

My idols

I logged into Facebook two nights ago to see a post from my friend Eve. She works for a major university, and she mentioned her day had been brightened considerably when she walked back from lunch behind a group that included Dr. Jane Goodall, on campus for a lecture. 

This made me happy for a couple of reasons. That Eve was so thrilled about her almost-encounter, and that many of her friends were commenting about how envious they were. These days, I fear many young women wouldn't recognize one of the most trailblazing women of the 20th century, but they could name every member of the extended Kardashian family. I don't have many idols. But I can tell you this: there's not a pop singer or reality show cast member in the bunch.

First up, Dr. Goodall. I have been fascinated by her since I was a child. I suppose I became aware of her through National Geographic, or Life magazine, or television specials. I don't remember a time when I didn't know who she was. I am in awe of her pioneering work at a time when women didn't jaunt off on posh holidays alone, much less set up camp on the rugged terrain of a lakeshore in Tanzania to study chimps. Young women were meant to be housewives, not scientists. The woman was also the subject of her very own Far Side strip. If that ain't cool, I don't know what is. Dr. Goodall will be 77 next week, and the word that comes to mind when I think of her is formidable, 50 years after she first went to Gombe.  I may have an opportunity to meet her next week during her lecture tour, and I will be hard-pressed to form a complete sentence. I love her.



Miep Gies. It is one of the big regrets of my life that I didn't ever get her to sign my copy of  Diary of a Young Girl. Well into her 90s, she would apparently sign copies of the book sent to her from all over the world. For those who don't know her, she was the woman who helped hide the Frank family in that attic for just over two years. When I visited the Frank house and walked through that bookcase into their hiding place I had a physical reaction.  At great personal risk to herself,  Miep helped to shelter eight people and, when the Nazis took them, gathered up Anne's writings for safekeeping, without reading them. Years later, she would say of finally reading the diary, “The emptiness in my heart was eased. So much had been lost, but now Anne’s voice would never be lost. My young friend had left a remarkable legacy to the world." And this one tiny woman, barely five feet tall, who risked her life to protect her friends,  is the sole reason we know Anne's story.  Miep literally gave Anne's voice to the world.

Josephine Baker. Now, admittedly, I love most anything to do with Paris in the 20s and 30s. But Josephine...
Ernest Hemingway said that she was "...the most sensational woman anyone ever saw."  She was a muse to not only Hemingway, but F. Scott Fitzgerald, Picasso, Christian Dior. It is a rare woman who could star in the Folies Bergères, work for the French Resistance, and go on to speak at the March on Washington alongside Martin Luther King. She rose from sleeping on the streets of St. Louis to becoming the toast of Paris at the start of the Art Deco movement. She married many times, adopted a dozen children, and refused to perform in segregated venues. She staged a triumphant "comeback" in her late 60s, though to the French, she'd never really left. She died four days after opening a retrospective revue of her 50 year career to raves and an audience that included Mick Jagger and Sophia Loren. She was laid to rest with full French military honours.

As for why these particular women are my idols, it isn't about fame, or fortune, or even a truly awesome banana skirt. I want my idols to do far more than hit a high note. It's about what they accomplished but, more than that, what makes these women so special to me is who they were, and are. It's their intelligence and strength of character, their integrity, courage, and spirit. It is the things about them that I hope, in some tiny measure, might someday be said of me. And okay, maybe that banana skirt had a little something to do with it.  It was pretty darn cool.

The B List

I don't particularly love the term "bucket list". I didn't see the movie, although that was more about me being afraid I might see Jack Nicholson's ass than it was about the title. Even the idea of it sort of freaks me out, like committing your life wish list to paper tempts the fates to deny you what you most desire.  I'm like a human mini-egg; a crunchy pragmatic shell conceals my soft superstitious centre.

And yet...the act of thinking about what I really want to do in this life has appeal. The list probably shouldn't be filled with dreams that are completely unattainable, nor should there be too many things I could easily accomplish simply by asking for a higher Visa limit. Okay - fetch me a bucket.

1) I want to go on an archaelogical dig in Egypt. Given the political situation there right now, this could be tricky for the next few years. And given my complexion, I might burst into flames. But I've been transfixed by Egyptology since I was about 10 years old; I don't think the fascination is going away. I believe there are programs through universities that let you do this as sort of a "learning vacation" thing. I really hope so, since my actual archaelogical experience is pretty much limited to the time my mother thought the cat had eaten her earrings and was insistent I dig through the litterbox.

2) I want to go to Paris with someone I'm in love with. I've been by myself a few times, and I've been with friends, and I've done all the things one is supposed to do, except kiss someone I'm smitten with in the middle of the Pont Neuf. Sorry, creepy guy in the window of the hotel across the alley a few years ago; you most definitely are not in the running.

3) I would like to bottle feed a baby chimpanzee. I've been fascinated by chimps since I was a kid, thanks to Jane Goodall, and I'd love to hang out with a little one for an afternoon. My job has afforded me some cool opportunites to go behind the scenes with animal caretakers a few times, and I loved every second of it. FYI, baby penguins have total rock star hair.

4) I would like to take a white water rafting trip on the Colorado river. I'm a very weak swimmer, and deep water scares me. But I read a book last year that really made me want to do it. No one died, everyone had fun, and the dog survived. Granted, it was a novel, but they base those on actual events, right?

5) I'd love to be a backup singer on stage at a massive concert. This is probably as unattainable as it gets, given that a) I don't sing, and b) I don't think I can be sufficiently slutty enough to have a band/singer owe me a favour. But I shake a mean tabourine. They could kill my mic and teach me basic finger snap choreography. This would terrify me, but I think it would be such a rush.

6) I want to attend the Oscars. Not necessarily as a nominee, unless that romantic comedy / horror movie I've been meaning to write gets optioned. They green lit "The Dilemma" so it can't be that hard. I don't even have to be inside the Kodak; I think the red carpet experience would be enough.

7) I want to attend a traditional Hawaiian luau. Full on pig in a pit, poi, the whole mele kaliki-mess. If I'm going to do this, though, I totally need to do some situps before I put on a grass skirt.

8) I want to spend an evening in a very high-end restaurant kitchen to see what goes on. Some place like Thomas Keller's Per Se. I've read all of Michael Ruhlman's books, and the descriptions of the pressure during service read like a Tom Clancy novel. It'd also be great to observe a few tricks, since my knife skills could most diplomatically be described as "uneven". How do they get everything so evenly chopped? I just call everything "rustic" so that people to think it's on purpose.

9) I want to be a balloon wrangler for the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.  Ideally, one of the old school balloons, not some character from some show I've never heard of before. I think Big Bird would be bad ass. Can Canadians do this? Or are balloon duties proprietarily American?

10) Speaking of balloons, I really want to take a hot air balloon ride over the Napa Valley while drinking a really good bottle of pinot or a nice sparkling.  I mean a proper hot air balloon, not Big Bird run amok. Perhaps right before convincing one of the Michelin-starred chefs in wine country to let me hang out. I'm pretty sure a windblown drunk is always welcome in high-end kitchens. Or maybe that's specific to Anthony Bourdain.

11) I'd like to take my Dad to a Leafs game. This doesn't sound that hard to accomplish, except my Dad hates to fly, and spending 24 hours in a car together would likely do us both in. I may have to drug him and just tell the flight attendants he's narcoleptic. I'll say this for my Dad - he's loyal to his team. Sometimes even he doesn't understand why. But that could be the narcolepsy.

That's it; that's what's on my bucket list. Sure, there are places I'd like to go, and things I'd like to see, but these are things I want to truly experience. Just so long as Jack Nicholson's ass has nothing to do with it.

You sexy thing

What do women find sexy...about other women? Hold your Sapphic horses, kids, I'm not talking girl on girl. Well, not really. But we notice other women, and we want them to notice us. I certainly do. I've already waxed libidinal about what I find sexy in a man, but I probably notice sexiness in a woman even more. Is it a female comparison thing? Maybe a little. But it's more an appreciation, an acknowledgement, a "well done, you". Sort of a Ya-Ya sisterhood thing, but without the blood oaths and the crazy mother.

I've mentioned this before, but there's a difference between "hot" and "sexy" in my world. Hot is in your face, but it's surface. It's the cover of a book you haven't read. Sexy is several chapters in, and you don't know what's going to happen, but you're really enjoying turning the pages. Kim Kardashian is undeniably hot, but sexy? I don't know. Certainly not from the interviews I've seen. That breathy little girl voice, the heavy sex kitten make-up? It's all just so...expected. And it all smacks of self-consciousness to me. You know who is sexy to me? Annette Bening. Did I feel the same way 15 years ago? The revisionist historian in me likes to think I did. But she may also have been wearing a floral-print hippie dress over jeans, so she clearly can't be trusted.

My girlfriends and I are in agreement on this - one of the first things women notice about another woman is her confidence. Not her hair, or her body, or her shoes (well, sometimes her shoes), but the way a woman carries herself. Do you get a strong sense of who she is? Does she seem comfortable in her skin? That's sexy. We all have days when our self-confidence just says fuck it and taps out, so if we see another woman rockin' a bit of swagger, we always take notice. Because we all have days when we want what she's having.

Many of the things I find sexy in men I also find sexy in women. Except for my well-documented love of forearms. That is a delightfully and distinctly male thing for me. Sigh. But a woman who is curious about and engaged in the world? A woman with an appreciation for profanity and a slightly dirty laugh? A woman who can deliver a good dirty joke with élan? I want to sit by her at dinner. And then do shots with her. I'm kind of uneasy around grown women who never swear. It's just so reserved. It freaks me out. I have a theory - these are the same women who use terms like "down there". I'm still a bit unclear where they mean, exactly. Is it Nicaragua?

A little mystery, please. Whether it's your life story or your neckline, no one needs to know everything right out of the gate. Sexy never presents itself on a silver platter with an apple in its mouth. Or in its cleavage. So ladies, put your tits away and save the story about how you lost your virginity for another time, okay?

I love quirkily stylish women. On my best days, I hope I dip my toes into that category. And if a woman I consider stylish, particularly a complete stranger, compliments me on something I'm wearing, it gives me a little frisson of excitement and makes my day. Making someone's day is sexy. Because boys, we wear the nice bras for you, but we wear the funky jewellery for her.

Notice what's missing? Anything tangibly physical. Sorry, gentlemen, but finding other women sexy doesn't mean we want to sleep with them. I don't even want to sleep with most of the men I find sexy. It should be noted I said "most". Don't get me wrong; I love boobs. Happen to own a pretty decent pair myself. But when it comes to other women, that's not what intrigues me. Do I appreciate a woman with nice legs, or pretty eyes, or great skin? Of course, because those things are beautiful. But when it comes to my fellow members of the fairer sex, I'll take substance over surface any day. When it comes to forearms, however, it's a completely different story.

Happy Happy Joy Joy

I have a bit of a reputation as a pessimist. I prefer to think of myself as a realist with glass half-empty tendencies. But just because I'm not a jumpy claps "Super Fantastic!" kind of girl, that doesn't mean there aren't many things that bring me joy. And it's almost always the tiny moments. Sure, standing on the observation deck of the Eiffel Tower makes my face hurt from grinning, but I only get to do that every several years. Every day happy is a bit more reliable. And yet so much easier to overlook. Some things I try to appreciate each and every time:

1) The muffled cracking sound ice makes in a glass when I pour in my drink. And Diet Coke does it, too, before you all mention a 12 Step program.

2) Going to see a movie, getting there in time for all the previews, and they're all movies I can't wait to see.

3) Walking into a bookstore and unexpectedly seeing a new book by the author of a book I loved.

4) Waking up and looking at the clock, and realizing I still have three hours until the alarm goes off.

5) Kissing someone for the first time. And for the 200th time. But the first time is pretty great.

6) A snowy day, a full fridge, a good book, and no place I have to be.

7) Nachos with extra guacamole. Or pizza with extra mushrooms. It's like a cheese-covered Sophie's Choice. 

8) Having a cold beer on my patio after work, in the summertime at twilight.

9) Happening upon a word I don't quite recognize, and looking it up. I realize this makes me a huge geek. A huge happy logophilic geek.

10) A kitty, a couch and flannel pajamas. Or an office, a blog, and a jingle bell tinkling behind me, like it is right now. Some poor catnip something or other is getting the snot kicked out of it.

11) Reading old emails from someone I once loved. This has the potential to quickly take a turn towards the unhappy, so my advice is to keep just the nice ones.

12) Baking for no reason other than to make my kitchen smell all butterysugary.

13) A coffee shop, a good friend, and free refills.

14) Seeing my Mom pull into my drive for a weekend visit.

15) Pancakes very late on a Sunday morning. Or very late on a Saturday night.

16) The hand of someone special on the small of my back. And no, creepy guy at the bar who wants to buy me and my friend a drink, you don't count as "someone special".

17) A stack of new magazines, a cup of tea, cookies, then a nap. Bliss.

18) Having my friends over, looking around my living room, and seeing everyone laughing, chatting and having a great time. Or trash talking each other over some bogus Scattergories point grab.

19) The first strawberry shortcake of summer. Followed about 8 minutes later by the second strawberry shortcake of summer. Who can eat just one serving of perfection? Weirdos, that's who.

20) Making someone belly laugh.

21) Listening to music in a house lit only by candles. This is doubtlessly more enjoyable seeing as how I never developed a fondness for Megadeth.

22) Glass of wine. Jazz c.d. Cutting board. Mezzaluna. This jumps into the Happy Hall of Fame if I'm cooking with someone else. This may be an excuse to have a man roll up his sleeves and feed my borderline forearm fetish. I'm okay with that. Chop the cilantro.

23)  Cupcakes. Red velvet with cream cheese frosting.

24) Finding the perfect birthday card for someone.

25) Planning to do something that scares me. Doing it. Doesn't matter if I do it well, only that it scared me and I did it anyway.

Some of these (1, 4, 9, 17 and, luckily, 20) are part of my day all the time. Others (3, 5, 16 and, thankfully for my ass, 23) are few and far between. But I always notice them, because when it comes right down to it, true joy might just be in the details. Now if I could just do something about #22...

The kid I never had

It's going to be surprisingly snark-free today, gentle readers, so if you need a dose of bitchy, I'd suggest checking out an old post. Today, I am feeling a wee bit sentimental.

Back in the day, I used to be a nanny. My young charge was a pig-tailed, giggly 18 month-old cheese enthusiast who liked colouring, going down the slide, and visits to the park to see the ducks. She also, more disturbingly, enjoyed ripping up countless picture books with a zeal then more commonly reserved for works by Salman Rushdie. Luckily, her penchant for destroying the written word was gone long before her baby teeth.

I don't get to see her very much these days, but she and her mom and I went to Starbucks today, and it's still a bit weird for me to realize she's not a little girl anymore. My instinct was to wait with her while they made her drink, rather than go grab a table. Never mind that she could very likely pin any pervert who approached her, then make a citizen's arrest, all without messing up her hair or spilling her frappuccino.


Even after I stopped being her nanny, we'd go to movies together. "101 Dalmatians" was the first one. I remember pouring Smarties into the skirt of her little dress once she sat down, turning it into sort of a built-in candy bowl. She knew the movie was a cartoon about lots of dogs. During the previews, a trailer for "Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves" came on. She looked at me and said, in the most accusatory voice a 3 1/2 year old can muster, "Dis is not da movie!" I explained that sometimes, they showed you a little bit of another movie in case you wanted to come see it another time. I could sense her displeasure with this lame-assed explanation as she waited for the oft-promised puppies, quietly eating her Smarties. I suspect to this day, she's never seen "Robin Hood", seeing as how that jerk delayed her Dalmatians enjoyment.

Being a Disneyphile, she received a Beast doll from "Beauty and the..." fame the year the movie came out. This doll came as the Beast, but a quick removal of his little furry gloves and his face mask turned him into the handsome prince. Whenever anyone would try and remove his mask, she would lose her four year-old shit. I like to think that even then she realized, sometimes, handsome ain't everything.


She's 23 now, a truly beautiful young woman, proudly wearing her X ring and telling me I totally have to creep her handsome boyfriend on Facebook. You're right, sweets, he's a fox. I always knew the cute little kid would become a pretty young girl, but I am forever amazed by the kind, smart, poised, and accomplished woman she has become.



And, best of all, she still thinks I'm cool, even though I no longer try and make her laugh by wearing beaver teeth I've fashioned out of cubes of Havarti.  She once drew a picture of her family; she and her mom and dad were crayon drawings; for me, she had cut out a picture of supermodel Stephanie Seymour. Stephanie and I have little in common beyond a shameful love of long-haired musicians in our younger years. Best picture ever.

I don't know if I'll be lucky enough to have a kid of my own. I hope so. But I know this - I could only hope to have a daughter as wonderful as her. Her parents have done a terrific job raising a great girl, and I thank them for trusting me enough all those years ago to let me be a part of her life. They're the ones who truly have a right to be proud of her, but I'd like to think a tiny bit of who she is today is because of the days we spent together, feeding the ducks, eating cookies, and rocking out to Depeche Mode and Grace Jones, me in Doc Martens and she in a diaper. I love you, kid. Just stay away from my lipsticks.

Resolution Retribution

I have about 24 hours. One day until I am supposed to once again come up with a list of half-assed goals, a third of which I'll likely break before the clock strikes midnight. Here's why resolutions may not be my solution:

There was the year I vowed to "be in love" the next year. Look, if wishing it into existence were all it took, I'd be Mrs. Jackman by now, after what I can only assume would have been a tumultuous breakup with my grade six pseudo-boyfriend. Hey Brian, what's up?

Having failed at placing myself squarely within Cupid's sights (over here, you myopic little bastard) I decided I was aiming too high and resolved the following December 31st to achieve the much more reasonable "start dating this year." We've discussed this; I love the flirting, I love the near-the-beginning phase, I even love the sort of mundane day-to-day stuff. But until they come up with some way to skip directly to date three, thus avoiding the silly, exhausting, hair-twirling-if-only-I-had-it-to-twirl bit, I might be screwed. Granted, they kind of have invented a way to skip directly to the good parts of date three. It's called Grey Goose.

I did pretty well with the "expand my culinary repetoire / cook more stuff" attempt. But eventually, I got tired of sourcing spices I'd never heard of that smelled vaguely of illicit drugs, eating the same thing 4 nights in a row, and having only Tallulah to admire my kitchen wizardry. She didn't particularly care for the saffron orzo, as I recall. She eats moths; I hardly trust her palate.

There's the obligatory "get in shape" entry. Some years it's been sort of okay, some years it's been a (lack of) exercise in frustration.  Inevitably, even if I start out guns-a-blazin', something happens (heartbreak, injury, fettucine alfredo), that derails me. But honestly, my gym is about to put my picture on the side of a milk carton, and I'm eating a piece of my Mom's gumdrop cake as I write this, with one of her nanaimo bars warming up in the bullpen. So let's go ahead and take this one off the short list for 2011, shall we?

I also did quite well with the whole "save money to buy a house" one. And now I am the happy owner of a soul-crushing mortgage that pretty much guarantees the only way I'm going to be able to swing my every few years trip to Europe this year is if some Albanian gang kidnaps me so they can auction me off to the highest bidder. I just really hope they don't make me wear that harem-girl outfit, 'cause I not two minutes ago decided that "get in shape" ain't happening. 

There was the year I was in a rut, so I vowed to "try new things". I'm sure there were more, but the two that stand out were taking a cooking course in Tuscany and trying ashtanga yoga. The Tuscan cooking course was always going to be a huge success: I love pasta, I love travel, and I was with my girl Robyn, who shares my believe there's no problem wine and a mixed tape can't solve. The ashtanga yoga was always going to be a huge fail: I haven't been flexible since puberty, I walked in wearing an old concert t-shirt to find pretty much a live-action version of the lululemon website, size tight, and I don't like being asked to grab my ankles by anyone who hasn't bought me a few drinks and told me my eyes are pretty. Lesson learned: less spandex, more ravioli.

So you might say it's been a rather mixed bag of resolution success. This year, I think I'm resolving not to have resolutions, per se. That being said, my lovely friends Neville and David gifted me with the wonderfully whimsical Flying Wish Paper last night. You write down a wish or a pledge, light the paper on fire, and let it burn until it lifts off its little platform, carrying your hopes out into the world.  Okay - perhaps I need one resolution: I resolve not to light the Flying Wish Paper near the sheer curtains. Happy New Year, everyone.

The real 12 Days of Christmas

Forget the golden rings (makes me look sallow)  and all those persistent drummers (like a goddamn Rush concert that never ends. Shudder). And no sign of a partridge, but there's likely a glitter-obsessed cat in the tree. Here's my 12 days of Christmas.

1) The day I buy the first Christmas gift (often in late October), thus becoming convinced this will be the year I actually get stuff done early. This does not last. I tend to peak too soon. Kind of like Taylor Swift, but without the chart-topping break-up songs. Come to think of it,  I should totally be writing country music. Nashville, call me.

2) The day I go shopping for my boyfriend. Actually, the day I go shopping for my brother and end up seeing all this awesome stuff I'd buy my boyfriend. I don't have a boyfriend. The handful of men I've dated have all been quite different, but I think they'd agree on the following points: a) I give fantastic gifts; b) I'm a very good kisser,  c) I really don't think that's fair, not when you haven't heard my side of things.

3) The day I realize my jeans are a smidge tighter, and I blame it on the festive goodies. Granted, this year that happened around the third week of November, but I'm gonna go ahead and file it under "holiday season".

4) The day I finally sit down to wrap all the presents. That day is always December 23rd, and I always watch a Christmas movie while I do it. This year it was "The Polar Express". Last year it was "Die Hard". Don't think that qualifies as a holiday movie? It takes place at Christmas. And, be honest, which phrase are you more likely to use at the mall around December 21st:  "Yippee-ki-yay motherfucker" or "Happy Holidays"? Thought so.

5) The day I spend 8 hours shopping and come home with one stocking stuffer, three things for myself, and a nasty disposition. And possibly a ketchup stain from the panic fries I had at the food court in the hopes that inspiration could be found in trans-fat. You know the only thing that inspired? My ass.

6) The day I spend two hours shopping and get most of it done. Not sure why; it could be kismet, it might be desperation. But it's like the heavens open up and shine a golden light on the gifts I'm meant to buy. Granted, this might be a weird side-effect of 3 gingerbread lattes in a 4 hour period, but they're my very own Chrismas crutch. I'm like a super-caffeinated Tiny Tim with a debit card. Seriously, the Starbucks card I got for my birthday? Like giving crack to Courtney Love.

7) The day I see something I never knew I wanted and have to have. The exact timing of the day can vary somewhat, but will always take place 3-4 days after my mother has announced she's completely finished shopping. She did me a solid this year on one thing, though. We meet again, Professor Layton.

8) The day I watch "Love Actually". This is never my present-wrapping movie, because I want to be able to really enjoy it. Adore it. Notice something new every time. Always makes me laugh and tear up in equal measure. And Bill Nighy? I totally would.

9) The day, a weekend one, when I have so much to do I need to make a list and check it twice. I usually even vow to go to bed early.  This is usually preceded, the previous evening, by a "just one drink" festive bender that might see me wearing a feather boa, flirting (badly) with the d.j., and thinking I can play pool. I am only good at one of these things. And it ain't flirting. Or pool.  But I realized something this year: the laser-like focus on my to-do list kept my hangover at bay. As did the gingerbread lattes.


10) The day I attempt to do some Christmas baking. I don't have kids, and most of my friends are more the Christmas cocktail than Christmas cookie crowd, but I have to engage in creaming butter and sugar together for it to really feel like Christmas. Raspberry almond triangles, peppermint pattie bars, gingerbread men (this year they were ninja bread men, and they were awesome).  You know how, on those cooking shows, all their ingredients are laid out, pre-measured,  and even the cooling rack stands at the ready? Yeah, I hate those bitches. There's a better than average chance I'll end up fishing egg shells out of the batter, get butter on my glasses, and forget to turn off the beater before I lift it out of the bowl. And I wouldn't have it any other way. I'm a pretty good baker, but it's a bit like making sausages; delicious, but I wouldn't advise you to witness the process. Thank God I can foist it off on my colleagues, who will happily eat just about anything remotely cookie-like. Often before 10:30 am. See also #3.

11) Tree day. This is probably more like tree three or four days. Get the tree. Make poor man at lot hold it up so I can get a good look. Interrogate him as to the freshness of the tree. Have it delivered. Wrestle it into stand. Cut plastic netting and cross fingers while tree settles. Let it relax for a day. Check lights before placing on tree. Finally light tree. Notice one set is now not working. Curse. Figure out problem. Have drink. Vow "never again". Call tree lot to ask why they suppose tree isn't drinking (that makes one of us). Then start opening ornament boxes and remember how much I love Christmas trees.

12) Christmas Eve, or the day I arrive at my parents house, bag upon bag of gifts in my hands, to be greeted by a squeaky-obsessed yorkie, an indecisive cat (do I want to be in? out? no, in) and an incontinent husky. Every year, I plan to arrive early. I don't know what happens: I leave my house before noon, often before 11:00, and yet still can't make it through the door of my childhood home until nearly 5. It's an hour and a half drive. But there are stops to make, coffees to get, snacks to stock up on. I've come to think of my meandering journey as a new Christmas tradition. So from me, In 'n Out Cat and a bladder-compromised husky, hope your Christmas is a good one. Yippee-ki-yay, motherfuckers.

Hostess under protest?

I love having people over.  Until I actually invite them. Then I realize I'm going to have to get my shit together, and I regret ever opening my party-loving mouth.  But I man up, badger friends for appetizer recipes, clean the house, and brace myself. Here's what I've learned after years of puff pastry and cheese dip gone awry.

The only rule you really need:  don't ever run out of booze. Ever. Sure, people bring booze with them, but sometimes, they drink it all. If they're my friends, by "sometimes"  I mean "in the first 45 minutes". People can deal with the Wavy Lays running out. Vodka is a different matter. 

Spend twice as much time cleaning your bathroom, and very little time cleaning anything else.  I once felt the need to straighten up the basement before a get-together. You know, in case someone wanted to take their empties downstairs, maybe do a load of laundry, change the furnace filter.  What a waste of time.  No one is ever going to see it.

Forget what I just said. Bold-faced lie.  Assume that someone, at some point, will need a sweater, or more hangers, or lip balm, and you'll boozily tell them "Upstairs. Just go grab it". It will be approximately 15 seconds later when you realize there's a better than average chance they have not yet found the Blistex but have found the bull whip in your dresser. True story; I can explain. But I won't.

On a related note, people like to look around. Some people call it snooping; I call it natural curiousity. It doesn't bother me in the slightest; if I've invited people over, it's because they already know and, hopefully, like me. Want to look on my bookshelves or in my medicine cabinet? Go ahead! Trust me - given the choice, I'd much rather people poke around in my nightstand than my relationship history; way less chance for humilitation courtesy of the Canesten and the sleeping pills.

When people ask if they can bring something, always say yes. Unless it's the weird guy they just started dating who creeps out your other friends. See also: kids, radishes, and anything you need to set on fire to finish cooking. 

Lighting is everything. My kitchen has two fixtures, each consisting of 5 bulbs. During party prep, they're on full blast. But first time I threw a party in my house, I forgot to dim them before guests arrived. It was less "Merry Christmas" and more Inquisition. If they'd had incandescent bulbs and sweet and sour meatballs in Spain circa 1500.

Try really hard not to have sex until all your guests have left. It's bad manners, and can lead to awkward burst-ins. This is a hypothetical. Besides, it was more an after party than the party proper.

Your cat most likely did not escape. She's in the basement, having squeezed herself into a tiny space between the ceiling boards. She's wondering who in the fuck all these people are, and planning on vomiting in your shoes after you go to bed. The other one, after spending an hour eyeballing the assortment of appetizers, is now in the living room, demanding whisker rubs from total strangers, usually the ones who're afraid of cats. She has also helped herself to some red pepper dip. And some cheese. And possibly eggnog.

No one likes veggie trays, not really.  Sure, they'll nibble them if they're there, but not once, in the history of house parties, has anyone looked at the snack assortment and said "No cherry tomatoes? Boo!"  A friend gave my prospective menu for this weekend's party a glance and, when I asked what was missing, said, simply, "Meat!"  I just have to accept that no matter how pretty and delicious my ricotta, lemon and honey crostinis are, they're not guy food. But I will make them, and you will eat them.

Now buy lots of votives, turn the lights down, and put on a low cut top to distract from any lingering dust you may have missed. Whatever you do, just don't run out of booze.

Christmas confessions

With four weeks to go, I decided to stop stalling on the serious Christmas shopping, and headed to the mall late Saturday afternoon. Fortified with a gingerbread latte and a scone billed only as "festive"  (it had blackberries and raspberries; I assume its festiveness comes from its kicking off the annual holiday muffin-top tradition), I was pretty sure I'd get a fair bit accomplished. Which leads me to the first of my Christmas confessions:

1) I bought myself a ring and some really cute slippers with sheep on them. Looked around a bit. Then I went home.

2) Nancy Drew outed Santa for me. I was probably 9, or nearly, and was snooping in my mother's closet while she was at work. I found some Nancy Drew books. Awesome; she was my favourite.  Except come December 25th, they were in my stocking from Santa. Thanks a lot, Nancy. That's one thing I wish had remained a mystery a little longer.  Bitch.

3) My favourite scene in "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" is when Max goes under the sleigh and ends up on the back, waving at the Grinch.  Cindy Lou's voice grates on me;  I know grown women Who, though much more than two, talk just like her.

4) An old boyfriend once came over and hid my Christmas gifts around my apartment. It was sweet. I do not have any of them anymore. The boy or the gifts.

5) I kind of love the chaos at the mall in December. It inspires me. Perhaps that's why Saturday was a bust; it's only November. But I'll commiserate when other people complain about the the madness, nodding politely and making appropriate remarks, even though I secretly enjoy the crowds. Unless they get in my way. I will cut you if you try and get the last Laura Secord marshmallow Santa.

6)  I have never spent a Christmas morning anywhere but my parents' house. I've arrived home well past midnight, in a snowstorm,  but I have always been there. A few years ago, my mother put the stockings out before I went to bed and I got mad at her. She was like " you know it's me, right?" Yes, thanks to that blabbermouth Nancy Drew, I do.

7) I used to buy my grandfather my favourite chocolates, even though they were probably only his third or fourth favourite. But he would open them and offer me one first, without fail. He also really loved Poppycock. My whole family loves it, too,  but it annoys my mother when I refer to it by its nickname.  Particularly when I say things on Christmas Eve like "When you went to get the Christmas groceries, did you remember how much I love 'The Cock'?"

8) When eating gingerbread persons, I will always bite their little legs off, then their arms, leaving the head and torso to savour.  Essentially, I turn them into the cookie interpretation of the title character from that awful movie "Boxing Helena". That pretty much makes me the Yuletide version of that creepy fucker Julian Sands.

9) I used to sit on the floor with my cats and sprinkle catnip on their presents to try and get them to open them. This only resulted in them rolling on the presents, oblivious to the feline treasures contained within. We've switched to gift bags, with much more success. And yes, I wrap their presents in some fashion. Don't judge me; they love it.

10) I, like many women, buy my mom's gifts from my dad. Except one year in university when I was swamped and refused. One of the things he got her was a stuffed unicorn. To quote my father: "I don't know why; I panicked". I've never made him shop for Mom since. We still refer to it as "the unicorn incident".

11) I think kissing under the mistletoe is a silly tradition, yet I'm still irked by the fact that I've never been kissed under the mistletoe by anyone who really meant it. Did you know mistletoe is a parasitic plant?  Figures.

12) People who announce on December 1st that they're "pretty much done shopping. I just need to wrap one thing and mail it." I hate you.

I'm sure there are many more, floating around the tinsel-draped corners of my subconscious, faintly illuminated by an errant strand of those goddamn blue icicle lights (one infamous Christmas party in the early 90s alone is worthy of its own list). But I shall leave you with this, for a baker's dozen of Christmas confessions: 

13)  Last year, at a mall that shall remain nameless, I found one of Santa's elves disturbingly hot. In my defense, he was probably about 21 and had really pretty eyes. Plus, his outfit was really cute, and he was surrounded by oversized peppermint sticks. Don't try and deny it; you totally would.