Bridge Over Troubled Waters

What a week!

I don't know about you, but the past few days have been super busy in my little world.

Super stressful as well.

Without getting into the details because I like to keep my work life seperate from my blog life, there are big changes on the horizon for my organization.

And when I say big, I mean huge.

Ever the optimist, I believe all change will be to the greater good in the end, but until we get there, the journey remains untenable and scary.

But that's life.

Our most difficult moments, changes, and crises require that we draw strength from within ourselves that we perhaps weren't even aware existed. And though the pain and difficulty of a crisis situation may tap and deplete our resources so that we feel we can't move another inch, it's truly in our darkest moments that we are most strong.

What strength, after all, does it take on an average day to eat breakfast, get dressed, and carry on - as compared to the strength it must take for the mother who has just lost a child or the person who has just lost their partner to fulfill even the simplest tasks?

And still we survive.

The indomnitable spirit of our humanity kicks in and we find strength in unexpected ways and places.

We claw our way out of the ashes to discover that new life awaits us beyond the darkness of despair.

Dangerous Opportunity.

That's what the Japanese symbol for crisis means.

It implies that in every circumstance, no matter how tragic, there is always opportunity for growth and that if we truly believe this, it will bolster us as we navigate life's most treacherous waters.

I know it holds true for me.

When I look back at my life and pin point the most dark and difficult times, their outcome is always the same: a change in perspective that added new depth, character, and insight.

In most ways, pain has been a more powerful teacher than contentment.

And yet we're so afraid of pain in this quick fix society.

Got a headache? Pop an Advil.

Got a heartache? Get over it.

Need to talk? Keep it to yourself.

And at all costs, if somebody asks you how you're doing, tell them you're "fine" because, truly, that's the answer they're hoping for anyway.

As the years go by it becomes more and more apparent that people aren't comfortable sharing the truth about who they really are and how they feel.

Except sometimes in this medium of keyboard and modem where people are more willing to be honest, and vulnerable, and to let their guards down, the paradigm shifts and we truly find ourselves in a braver new world.

A world where we're actually stopping to listen to one another - just as you're doing for me now.

Think about it. If someone were spouting off about paradigms and soul connections on the street would you really stop to listen or would you walk by quickly, content in the knowledge that you were fine?

Me too.

But the past few weeks have caused me to suffer introspection.

As such, I'm having to dig deep and resurrect core beliefs I spoke of earlier, remembering that for every cross road, and every crisis, there is always opportunity, and that when something arises that seems unexpected, perhaps there are other things waiting in the wings getting ready to emerge that I just don't know about yet.

And that's the blog.

But before you go, talk to me...

Tell me about a crisis from your own life that has since been resolved. Did you end up learning and growing from the experience, and if so, what did you learn?

With all the changes going on in my life, I need your stories to remind me that for everything there is a purpose...

And then have a FABULOUS weekend.

I'll see you all bright and early Monday morning so make sure the coffee's brewing!

My Son the Stand Up Comic

In his almost eighteen years of life, my son TH has dreamt of several diferent career paths.

From age three to five, he was going to work with bugs, frogs, or dinosaurs.

From five to eleven, he was going to be a professional hockey player, soccer player, or golfer.

And from eleven to sixteen, he was going to be a rock star.

At no time during any of this career planning have vocations of a more tangible nature crossed his mind like engineering, accounting, or my secret dream: medicine.

Yes, I am one of those mothers.

From the time he was in utero I fantasized about introducing "my son the doctor" to the world; confident in my ability as a parent to turn out a nobel prize winner, or at the very least, a brain surgeon.



It all started so well.

I had him set up with his first set of encyclopedias by age two, and made certain he was counting and reciting the alphabet by the time he hit kindergarten where I knew he would be immediately identified as gifted.

So imagine my surprise at our very first parent teacher conference when his kindergarten teacher had to audacity to imply that TH occasionally tattled.

Bitch!

Obviously she knew nothing about gifted children.

But as is the case with the majority of us in this low paying profession known as parenthood, I've had to cool my jets and re-think my belief that TH is the second incarnation of Ghandi.

The fire he and his best friend "accidentally" started in a back field in grade five, and the near fatal case of influenza he came down with everytime he had a math test helped me come to the realization that as much as I love my son, he is his own person, and isn't perfect.

I accepted long ago that he will be who he is and that his father and I have given him all the tools we can for successful navigation of the adult world. Although we are here to support him every step of the way, the decisions to make about his life and his future belong to him and no one else.

That being said, the prospect of my son on the road with a band has never particularly thrilled me, and around this time last year, I found new hope when he met Paige.

Beautiful, vivacious, personable, intelligent Paige who dreamed of Europe, journalism school, and upward mobility.

Suddenly, my son who had raged against the machine for the bulk of his teenage life, got a hair cut, started shopping at Abercrombie and Fitch, and began tossing me breadcrumbs about the possibility of law school.

People, I don't know who loved this girl more - him or me - and it took my broken heart a long time to recover after they split up.

Truth be told, I still grieve.

Since then he's talked about film school, criminology, a business degree, and his latest: stand up comedy.

Apparently he cracks up all his friends with hilarious stories about his crazy mother.

(I wonder where he gets that from...)

And is planning on doing an open mike night soon.

Which gives me this sudden burst of empathy and understanding for Aurora.

Twenty five years ago, I informed her I was going to pursue my dream of becoming a Broadway actress, and ever since I've harboured hidden resentment that she tried to talk me into secretarial school instead.

Which is why, no matter how badly I wanted to tell TH "Don't do it!"

I didn't.

Just as I didn't discourage his rock star ambitions.

I think sometimes as parents we don't give our kids enough credit for figuring things out for themselves.

So I said nothing other than that I would love to hear his set and that any jokes about me were perfectly fine. After this many years riffing on Aurora, I figure I've got it coming.

In the meantime, and without any prodding from me or his dad, he filled out an application for university in the school of business. He goes for his admission interview next week.

When I asked him "Why business?" he said he figured it would be a good thing to fall back on if the comedy doesn't pan out.

And that's the blog.

Now dish it...

What did you want to do with your life when you graduated from highschool?

Are you doing it, or was John Lennon right when he said "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans?"

As always, my enquiring mind wants to know!

Who Knew the Gym Was a Great Place to Pick Up Men?

So I head to the gym yesterday after a day that can best be described as brutal, intent on getting my elliptical on and sweating the stress out of my body.

As per usual, the place was packed, and I lucked into the last machine next to some guy in a Jack La Lane leisure suit doh dodey oh dohing like he was out for a Sunday stroll.

I can't figure people out. I mean, why go to the trouble of paying for an expensive gym membership and then barely break a sweat when you work out?

Remember last week in the blog about infomercials when we got into the great side discussion about the bumpit?



Well, not two days later, there was this girl, probably in her early twenties on one of the exercise bikes in full makeup - and when I say full, I'm talking Cleopatra - in perfectly coordinated gymware, with a big old bumpit on the top of her head.

People, she fascinates me.

Everyday with the makeup and the bumpit, sitting on one of the bikes with a copy of Glamour or Vogue, peddling away like she's on some kind of Victorian excursion without even so much as popping the slightest hint of sweat.

I have to wonder what it is she thinks she's doing and if she actually believes it might be benefiting her in some way.

Unlike people like me who, when we work out, it is ON!

And yes, I've been known to be a little competitive at times.

If there's a bake sale at the school, mine will be the loaves, cookies, and assorted dainties that come wrapped, labelled, and beautifully bowed in an assortment of artistically put together tins and boxes.

You will never see my baked goods covered in something so blase as say, Saran Wrap - or worse, tin foil, and if you're watching very closely, you will notice me merchandising my own goods to make sure mine are the first sold at the highest price point.

At the gym, I will stay on the treadmill longer than you. And, not only will I keep track of the speed you're going, I will keep mine one speed higher - even if a heart attack is imminent, and even if said behaviour has caused me to go flying off the damn thing on more than one occasion.

Deal with it.

This is just how I roll.

So when I got on the elliptical, the first thing I did was eye up what level of difficulty the Sunday Stroller was on: 2.

Amateur.

It wasn't even worth showing off.

I set my timer to a 30 minute high cardio program, lied about my weight - because you never know who might be looking - and set out to get my workout going.

Not three minutes into my routine, I could feel eyes on me.

I ignored it, and kept going.

But just when I was at the peak of my uphill performance, Sunday Stroller - who's been staring the whole time - ventures a comment:

"I'll bet this is the longest two minutes of your life."

People, do you think I looked like I wanted to make conversation?

So I grunted and carried on.

That didn't deter him.

A few minutes later he's back at it again and because I'm slow on the uptake, more time elapses before I realize with his last "Do you come here often?" - Slim Shady is trying to pick me up.

Of course, now I'm flattered.

When you get to my age, even a raised eyebrow can set the heart a flutter.

But don't get too excited, Alley cat that I am, the man was 79 if he was a day.

It got me thinking, though... maybe bumpit gal was at the gym for similar reasons.

He was a little old for her too - otherwise I would have made some introductions.

And that's the blog.

Now talk to me...



Do you go to the gym or engage in other types of physical activity? If so what's your favourite form of exericse (keep it clean people;) and how do you stay motivated?

Further, has anyone, elderly or otherwise, ever tried to pick you up while you had your exericse on?

As always, my enquiring mind wants to know (and be inspired) so Dish It!

***

Thankyou to Sarah's Whimsy at "I'm Not Judging, I'm Just Saying" for thinking of me for an award - my first ever!

I will now proudly display it for all to see...

Ta Da!!!

It's given to bloggers who write honest posts - in my case, about day to day life.



Have a wonderful day all!

The Terms of Endearment

Last night I was sitting by the computer (what else is new?) putting the finishing touches on my blog when the phone rang.

It was my seventeen year old son TH, calling to say his car had died and he was stranded.

I immediately woke the Poolboy because cars are more his department than mine, and quietly eavesdropped as father and son conferred.

"Is it the steering?"

Mumbled response.

"Did you check the fluid guage?"

More mumbling.

"Stay put then, I'm coming to check it out."

Even though he'd been awakened from a deep sleep and our son is almost an adult, it never occured to him, or me, not to do whatever we could to help and make sure everyone got home safe and sound.

Which got me to thinking about family, and connections, and how fortunate we, who have them, truly are.

I know this because I work with lots of kids who, if stranded, wouldn't have a responsible and loving adult they could call in times of trouble.

This has never been the case with me because I've been blessed with parents who, albeit decidedly quirky, were as present for me at seventeen as they are now, and as fate had it, TH's car was parked very close to their place.

One phone call to Marv and Aurora, and arrangements were made to have the Poolboy get the car over to their place.

Of course it wasn't without incident.

Any phone calls coming in on my parents line after 11:00 pm are automatically relegated to the "It must be an emergency" department, so that when I phoned, my mother sounded decidedly panicked as she picked up.

Bear in mind, this was the fifth time she'd spoken with me that day - the last time not 30 minutes earlier for a Desperate Housewives consultation - but that was different because she placed the call.

In this case, her panic button was activated because it was me calling during a non-designated time.

Long time readers are already aware that my mother and I average approximately four calls a day.

Eight during the prime time tv season.

And always on a rigidly adhered to schedule.

It goes like this:

One call in the morning to check in and discuss the upcoming day's events. A mid afternoon inquiry as to what's going to be on tv that night along with a quick discussion about what we're having for dinner. Often this involves the exchanging of recipes with my mother describing her dishes as being "Epicurean" and "To die for."

Then there's the 5:00 pm post Oprah Mon-Fri check in to discuss what she was wearing, what we thought of her hair, who the guest was, and an overall debrief of the show.

***

Note to Oprah - and this is coming unanimously from both myself and Aurora - re-think the cowboy hat.

For the love of God.

***

Later in the evening, we continue the discussion with commercial break phone check ins between 8 and 11 placed at randomn intervals because we both watch the same programs - which should help you understand why she thought the worst when my call came in at 11:13.

It wasn't prime time.



This is how she answered the phone:

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, TH just had a little car trouble and we..."

"Is he OKAY???"

"Yes, he's okay, we just..."

"What about his car, was he in an accident? Oh god, don't tell me there's been an accident. I can't handle an accident."

"No accident mother, there's something wrong with his steering and the PB doesn't want him driving it tonight. They're going to bring the car over to your place and park it okay?

Silence, followed by a spate of coughing.

Being the amazing fake psychic that I am, I know exactly what she's thinking.

Now that we've ascertained the safety of her nearest and dearest, a second dilemma has popped into her mind: Is TH's older model car going to leak something unpleasant onto their expensive stamped concrete driveway?

This is when Marv got in on the action because he'd been listening in the whole time on the other phone.

"Tell them they can't park on the street," he says.

Well d'uh - we already knew that. Marv and Aurora live in one of those gated type communities where exterior paint colours that aren't in the accepted spectrum are outlawed, and parking on the street anytime past 11 is strictly verboten.

But after about five minutes of interrogation with me running interference between my parents and my men, a plan was struck:

Marv would lay the flattened cardboard he had been saving for an occasion such as this on one side of the driveway where the Poolboy had been authorized to park.

In the morning we would all coordinate our schedules to 0:600 hours and establish the removal of said vehicle from driveway.

And that's how it went down.

Despite the drama, and the fact that Marv, a retired police officer who never quite went off duty, kept carboard in his garage for the eventual breakdown of TH's car, I wouldn't have it any other way.

These are my people and they love me.

At the end of the day, it's a blessing to have people in your life who, if you call after 11, love you enough to panic.

And that's the blog.

Now talk to me.



Tell me about the people in your life who panic, or better yet, tell me about the ways in which you've been known to do so over your kids.

As always, enquiring minds want to know!

See you tomorrow.

The Soul, Spirits and Love that Abides

Although I can be on the salacious side at times, those who know me understand that beneath my sometimes ascerbic tongue, beats the heart of a deeply spiritual person.

I have my grandmother to thank for this.

Not only did she make certain my early childhood was replete with experiences like Sunday school and the making of popsicle stick crosses to put into my basket at easter, she taught me all the great hymns so that to this day I am one of the few people in my social circle who knows the words to the Old Rugged Cross, How Great Thou Art, and her all time favourite "In the Garden."

When I was a little older, my grandparents moved to the country and I could no longer attend church with them - but this didn't stop me. My best friend Cindy and I would get up early Sunday mornings, put on our very best dresses and ride the bus to the Charleswood United Church where the two of us would attend services.

It's a good thing too. After the trouble the two of us got ourselves into during highschool, we needed all the spiritual support we could get.

Over the years, I gained an appreciation for the vastness of spirituality and the beauty of this thing called existence - the sweet uncertainty that comes with wondering about the unknown.

When I was a little girl it was all very simple: When people died, they wore white robes, had halos, and went to live in this white fluffy, and totally magical place called heaven where they could have all the marshmallows and candy they wanted forever and ever amen.

As an adult, however, the possibilities of what happen to us after we die are less clear. Though I may believe one thing and you may believe another, at the end of the day, none of us really knows for sure.

Belief, like love, is something that you feel.

As such, while most people will look for a flaw in an electrical outlet if the lights flicker, I automatically wonder: "Grandpa is that you?"

Because of this, I've probably had more close encounters of the ghostly kind than the average Jane and run the risk in certain company of looking a little woo woo.

This, however, does not deter me.

Mostly because I realize people think I'm woo woo anyway, but also because of my unwavering belief that there is a vastness and a goodness out there that is beyond our wildest ability to comprehend.

A belief that has rubbed off on others; creating a richer sense of existence for the people around me.

***

When my grandparents died they let themselves be known.

With my grandfather came the smell his cologne.

I'd be sitting on the couch watching TV or reading a book and I'd get the slightest hint of a scent. Enough to make me sit up and take notice, but never so much that it filled the room. As such it was elusive enough to leave me wondering.

After my grandmother passed away, she was more obvious and for at least two years after she died, I could feel her presence - especially when I was in the kitchen.

During this two year period we began having strange experiences with the TV in our living room. On several occasions it turned itself off, and once it even turned itself on.

It also became a regular occurence for our stereos to do the same.

Most memorably, one day after school while TH was in my room watching tv our DVD player began to play "Money" by Pink Floyd.

TH came flying down the hall, his eyes as big as saucers, screaming "Something's wrong with the stereo!!!!"

***

Luckily, I've been his mother long enough that when things like this happen now he just shrugs and says, "Hi Grandma."

***

Although I'm certain my grandparents live on in my life in ways both big and small, I haven't felt the tangible energy of their presence in a long time.

The last time my grandma let herself be known was Christmas a few years ago when the living room stereo turned itself on at the exact moment I was looking at a tree ornament that had belonged to her. While a slow, nostalgic tear rolled down my cheek, Silent Night began to play.

So you can understand why, on that long last drive to the vet with Ziggy, I was serious when I asked my grandmother to be waiting for him when he got to where he was going.

***

Last Saturday night, feeling lonely and grief stricken, I told the PB I needed some kind of sign to let me know the dog was all right and that he had gone on.

The next morning I was sitting in front of the computer writing a blog, and as per usual, was completely immersed in the process.

At one point I noticed an anomalous sound coming from somewhere down the hallway but because I was so involved in what I was writing, it took about five minutes to register that the sound was out of place.

When I finally began to listen, it sounded like a pipe had burst.

At first I thought it was coming from outside, but as I made my way toward the back door, it became evident that the sound was coming from inside my house toward the back bathroom or my bedroom.

"Great," I thought as I made my way down the hall, "On top of everything else, we've got a water problem."

But the sound wasn't coming from the bathroom.

It was coming from our bedroom.

The stereo had turned itself on - this time to the radio.

The sound I was hearing was static because it wasn't set to a particular station.

The minute I realized what it was, I knew.

Maybe if it had happened a few months ago I wouldn't have attached the same significance to it.

But in the spirit of "timing is everything," this had me taking notice.

The next morning when I woke up, I looked at the digital clock on the same stereo.

It read 6:15 am and I wondered if I should get up, or loll around in the rack for another half hour.

After a few minutes, I decided that since I was awake anyway, I may as well get up. So I rolled out of bed and went to get a cup of coffee.

When I came back to the room, I went to check the time. The stereo had, this time, managed to unplug itself just enough from the outlet so that the clock had gone blank.

One happening could have been chalked up as a coincidence, but two in a row, right after this kind of loss, are enough for me to look to the heavens and say "Thanks Grandma, wherever you are."

And that's the blog.

Now dish it...

Tell me about your own experiences. The times you can't quite put your finger on where you were sure you felt something, or saw something, or heard something, or smelled something.

Those moments of knowing or feeling the presence of love in the room.

Share them either here in the comments or in a blog of your own.

If you blog about them, please be sure to let me know and send me a link so I can include it tomorrow, or provide a direct link to your blog today.

I'm going to leave with one of my favourite stanza's of poetry ever written. It's from Relics of Joy by Thomas Moore and goes:

"Long long be my heart with such memories filled
As the vase in which roses have once been distilled
You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will
But the scent of roses will hang round it still"

***

Stay tuned tomorrow for a blog about the connections we have in our lives and the funny, heart warming ways in which love is sometimes expressed.

Until then, health kick that I'm on, today's Kitchen Witch recipe is Fabulous!

If you're not sure what to make for dinner and would like to introduce some new greens and healthy omegas into your diet, Salmon with Apples Potatoes and Kale is the recipe for you!



Until tomorrow, give thanks in all things. It really is A Fabulously Good Life!

Liquid Greens Detox Blend and Occupied Bathrooms

As many of you probably remember, the Poolboy and I after listing our house last year, changed our minds and decided not to sell.

Even though the house we were serious about had two kitchens, one upstairs, and one down that I was planning to turn into a farm style baking and canning room, we were on the verge of a recession and my reliable old spidey senses were telling me the move would not be prudent.

So we stayed put in our comfortable, albeit small, cottage style home, and citing the mantra "Small is the new Big," continued to enjoy the sense of togetherness one can't help but feel living in close quarters.

And when I speak of togetherness, let me go on record by explaining that it isn't just between myself, the Poolboy, TH and our pets.

No.

By togetherness I mean myself, the Poolboy, TH, our pets, and TH's long standing group of friends who've been sitting around my kitchen table, sleeping over, and helping themselves to whatever's in the fridge since 1995.

I've watched this lovely group of miscreants go from little boys building forts in our back yard and catching wild frogs (who's been around long enough to remember the "Five Wild Frogs?) to handsome young men with incredibly big appetites and even bigger feet who most weekends make their way here after one party or another to "crash."

Apparently the floor in TH's bedroom is comfortable and on most Saturday and Sunday mornings there are several comatose bodies littering the carpet, and a mulititude of big shoes on the porch indicating how many I'll be feeding when they come to.



This morning we were serving four because, though there are five pairs of shoes pictured, TH had to work at 10:00 and left the house long before the rest of the crew re-animated.

Though small may be the new big, and yadda yadda yadda, let's face it - when it comes to bathrooms you can never have enough.

And we don't.

Add to that the recent health kick I've been on that includes the nightly imbibement of an elixir called Liquid Greens Detox, and you've got a recipe for gastrointestinal crisis.

I'll set the scene.

The troops had begun to revive themselves and I, doing my best impersonation of June Cleaver in yet another festive apron, was whipping up a blender full of banana chocolate protein shakes, scrambled eggs, and turkey bacon (it's rugby season) when the first rumble in my stomach began.

There were two boys in the kitchen talking to me about Alton Brown of all things, while the other two were off taking incredibly long showers.

I began to pray.

"Please Lord, let them finish, please Lord, let the water turn off, please Lord..."

Uuumph.

Gurrrrrrrgle.

Intense pressure.

Good Lord.

I could no longer move, my eyes were bulging, and as I stood at the blender with my crossed legs shaking beneath the apron, I added a new prayer: "Don't let them talk to me."

Which, of course, went unanswered.

I can only imagine what I must have looked like as I panted out the ingredients in the smoothie one of them asked for and then straight legged it over to the toaster when the bread popped.

But just as I was beginning to think I was going to have to make my way to the back yard and relieve myself behind the shed, the water stopped in the bathroom down the hall and I only had to wait another five minutes as the occupant inside dried off, got dressed, and brushed his hair.

Which tells me it might be a good idea to forgo the detox greens tonight because they've already put in a request for whole wheat banana pancakes tomorrow (recipe on The Kitchen Witch)



And that's the blog!

Stay tuned for tomorrow's blog because it's going to be a good one. Ever since our beloved dog Ziggy died, unexplainable things have been happening around our house... which can only mean one thing.

My grandmother's at it again.

God love her.

And what I have to share is pretty amazing.

Until then, tell me, got any bathroom hogging offenders around your house?

Ever imbibed a detoxing elixir?

No topics off limits around these parts because my enquiring mind always wants to know!

Don't forget to leave a link to your blog in your comment so that others can visit you!

Happy Sunday and remember, in all things give thanks.

Changing the Tears of Autumn - A Saturday Memory Lane Blog

Saturday Memory Lane... The seamless re-working of an older blog that's been updated and gently reloaded.

***

"Tears, idle tears,
I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair,
Rise in the heart and gather in the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more."

--Alfred, Lord Tennyson



I've made no secret of it.

Summer with all it's splendour and fullness is my favourite time of year.

It's when good things just are, and the world seems filled with hope and possibility.

But Autumn...

It rolls in like new pencils, and bright red apples.



A smell in the air that makes us feel safe. Like somehow the world is a little gentler than we first imagined.

But for me, Autumn brings other challenges.

It was October when I walked away from a career I had worked for years to bring to fruition only to realize with the stark reality of a chilly November looming ahead, that it was the wrong path for me.

Although I gave it my heart, the path did not have heart, and so I had to leave it.

"A path is only a path, and there is no affront, to oneself or to others, in dropping it if that is what your heart tells you. Look at every path closely and deliberately. Try it as many times as you think necessary. Then ask yourself alone, one question. Does this path have a heart? If it does, the path is good; if it doesn't it is of no use."

-Carlos Castenada, from the Teachings of Don Jaun

My grandparents both died in November and the absence of their stalwart and loving presence was hard on me. And now, this year, our beloved little dog Ziggy closed his eyes for the last time on October 16.

So I find myself, come Autumn, faced with the reality that there are important choices to be made.

I'm already fighting the tendency to eat too much in preparation for the hibernation of a long winter ahead, and if I were being really honest, I'd tell you about the frantic phone call made to TH last night while he was on his way home from work with the message: "Get Cheezies!" left on his voice mail.

I know.

And I did.

Eat the cheezies, that is, but I didn't eat too many because, clean eater that I've become, I found them to be way too salty.

If life is about growing and learning, I am hell bent on staying the course on the path I'm currently on and not going back.

I'm socializing instead of hibernating.

Exercising instead of eating.

And leaving behind the sadness of the past, holding close the knowledge that I have been loved.



Now is the time for the burning of the leaves.
They go to the fire; the nostril pricks with smoke
Wandering slowly into a weeping mist.
Brittle and blotched, ragged and rotten sheaves!

A flame seizes the smouldering ruin and bites
On stubborn stalks that crackle as they resist.
The last hollyhock's fallen tower is dust;
All the spices of June are a bitter reek,

All the extravagant riches spent and mean.

All burns!
The reddest rose is a ghost;
Sparks whirl up, to expire in the mist:
the wild Fingers of fire are making corruption clean.

Now is the time for stripping the spirit bare,
Time for the burning of days ended and done,
Idle solace of things that have gone before:
Rootless hope and fruitless desire are there;

Let them go to the fire, with never a look behind.
The world that was ours is a world that is ours no more.

They will come again, the leaf and the flower, to arise
From squalor of rottenness into the old splendour,
And magical scents to a wondering memory bring;
The same glory, to shine upon different eyes.

Earth cares for her own ruins, naught for ours. Nothing is certain, only the certain spring.

-Laurence Binyon

***

I am a big believer in gratitude and on remembering the things in life that give us joy.

In the spirit of that, I am re-posting a fun tag I did last year with Melissa from The Inspired Room.

The 20 Things I Treasure in Autumn

1. Fall fashion. Blazers, sweaters, boots, button downs. Fall is my favourite time of year for great clothes. And because I always associate fall fashion with classics, I thought I'd share some favourites from Ralph Lauren's 2008 line...



Nothing says fall to me quite like a fabulous bag,

Amazing boots



A beautiful coat



Or coulors like red and black





2. Casseroles. What could be better than a wonderfully comforting casserole? For a real winner, visit the Pioneer Womans recipe for Chicken Spaghetti.

3. Jogging in the early evening. There is nothing quite like the crunch of Autumn leaves beneath the feet and the crisp cool air of fall to remind a person that life in all its intricacy is a beautiful thing.

4. Potted Mums.



These are the perfect addition to your yard and porch to bring beautiful fall colour to your life.

5. Sunday Dinner... what better time than fall than to invite friends and family to Sunday dinner. In a world where we tend to know more about our internet friends than our neighbours, how about inviting a neighbour to dinner?

6. The beauty of birds. In Canada we get to watch the geese in formation take flight. We take these seemingly small things in life for granted. They are a reminder to recognize the everyday miracles around us.

7. The sound of crickets. How fortunate are we to live in a world so robust with art, beauty, and nature.

8. The early darkness - if you turn it around, it becomes a time to settle in and reflect on all that we have to be grateful for.

9. Grasshoppers - hopping their way through tall grasses, celebrating their part in existence.

10. Scented candles

11. Lavender - reminding us, again, of the promise of summer.

12. Butternut squash and all it's sweet possibility

13. Flannel pyjamas

14. Toast spread with summertime jam

15. Zuchini Bread.

16. Homemade pickles.

17. Planting garlic - the gratitude of good things.

18. Family board games

19. Baking bread

20. My apple pie

And that's the blog.

But first, dish it!

Tell me about the things you love about Autumn and also if you have any challenges this time of year. What are you doing to cope? Are you taking good care of yourself, and, if not - maybe today's the day to get back on track.

As always, enquiring minds want to know!!

Dental Phobias and Other Health Related Angst

I haven't mentioned it until now, but I've been contending with a major dental problem.



It started innocently enough.

I went for my regular cleaning two weeks ago, and Helga, my incredibly thorough hygienist, gave me the going over of a lifetime.

As is always the case after a cleaning, my mouth was sore for a few days afterward.

But when I hit day seven, I began to wonder if something else was going on.

Two extra stength Advils every six hours did the trick, though, and I was able to cope with the pain.

Only problem is, as the days wore on, it seemed to be getting worse.

By late Saturday afternoon the Advil, now being taken every four hours, wasn't cutting it, and I was desperate enough to seek out a black market vendour for a vial of laudanum to ease the pain.

But being that the black market isn't exactly thriving in my neighborhood, I opted instead to call the nurse's line enquiring as to whether or not it was safe to take Tylenol with Advil. I was thankfully assured that this was the best thing to do to keep the pain at bay and was advised to make an appointment as soon as I could to see the dentist.

Ever notice how when faced with a medical dilemma, we feel the need to call the experts so that they can tell us what we already know we need to do?

In truth, I was hoping it would all just go away and even though I knew I needed to see a dentist, my fear of men with drills and shiny white teeth is so deeply ingrained that I needed verification from a nurse.

I come by that honestly, though.

Not because I think I've been abducted by aliens.

(Okay, maybe)

But mostly because Aurora lived on extra strength tylenol for the entire year of 1986 before Marv could convince her to see a dentist about a back molar.

In our family there a few hard and fast truths:

1. We are all incredibly quirky
2. We make good gravy
3. We have a fear and distrust of doctors that traces back to the early 12th century.

Which in its own way has curative effects.

Think about it.

Of the many, many times I've scared the Poolboy with one of my anxiety related phantom heart attacks or imaginary deep vein thrombosis, the minute I get him convinced that it really is the big one and he says "Let's go to the hospital," I snap out of it.

God forbid I should ever have the big one.

But let's not go there.

It really is kind of a human thing, though, and mothers, I know, can attest.

You've got a sick infant or toddler; spiking a fever, terrible cough, throwing up, and you just don't know what to do. So you take the baby to emergency where, by the time they see the doctor they're running around the room like the world's healthiest child.

Instant cure.

But why doesn't it ever work that way with dentists?

Because the painful reality is that, unlike the croup, any and all things related to tooth discomfort never seem to go away on their own.

So I made the appointment.

My dentist, God bless, him is a truly capable man.

Cosmetically, however, he is in possession of most otherwordly white teeth I've ever seen, which, quite frankly, can be a little off putting.

Remember the episiode of Friends where Ross double bleaches his teeth before a big date and then gets caught under a black light?



Well, that's my dentist.

He and his teeth began poking and prodding and x raying and spraying cold air around my mouth only to discover I've developed a gum infection in an area of my mouth where I'm supposed to extra diligent with the water pic.

Obviously I wasn't diligent enough.

The good news is my teeth are all fine.

The bad news is I had to go on anti-biotics which, any women can attest, never bears a pleasant outcome.

Truly - and I'm sorry to share this men - you pretty much trade one infection for another.

And that's the blog!

Have a wonderful weekend. I'll see you Saturday with a Memory lane Blog, Sunday for a little inspiration, and bright and early Monday morning with a blog about my latest spiritual visitation.

You don't want to miss this one because it's a doozy...

Until then, dish it!

Afraid of dentists or love the dentist?

Do you avoid doctors or go every chance you get?

As always, my neurotic soul wants to share your neurosis with you ;)

And if you have a blog, don't hesitate to share a link in your comment.

I'll come by to visit.

Have Fabulously Good Weekend and I'll see all a y'all Monday!

The Week in Review:

Monday: So Long Old Friend in which I shared the terrible news our beloved dog Ziggy had died.

Tuesday: The Four Stages of Grief as Expressed Down the Bulk Foods Aisle in which my husband and I go grocery shopping as a way of coping with our loss.

Wednesday: How Much Is That Doggie In The Window in which we devise a plan to buy a new dog.

Thursday: A Double Wand Kind Of Day in which I describe the comedic makings of a really bad day.

If you're kicking around tonight, pour yourself a cocktail and head over to Ann Again's Virtual Girl's Night Out!

A Double Wand Kind of Day

Ever had one of those mornings where nothing seems to go right?

I know, dumb question, of course you have.

Well I had one today - a double wand morning and it wasn't pretty.

(My three male readers are trying to figure out what I mean by "double wand," hoping I'm referring to something dirty)

Sorry to dissapoint ;)

A wand in the eye morning, as any makeup wearer can attest, is the ultimate harbinger of doom, indicating with amazing accuracy, a bad day ahead.

It occurs when you're rushed, or late with nothing going the way you planned.


You've been running around the house with a gazillion things on your mind and a To Do list a mile long trying to figure out how you're going to get everything done and still have a moment to go to the gym or catch some relax time at the end of the day.

While frantically applying a fresh coat of makeup, and usually after admiring what a great job you did on your lids, you jam your mascara wand right into the eye.

Causing it to water, and your makeup to smear.

On really bad days you manage to do both eyes.

Which is what I did this morning.

Right after showering and attempting to wash my hair with conditioner - a new thing for me.

I've experienced the whole "forgot to wash the conditioner out only to have to get back into the shower routine," but this was new.

I got under the running water, and already preoccupied with a deadline to make an early morning meeting, I wet my hair and squeezed a big dollop of what I thought was shampoo into my hand and rubbed it in.

I got no lather.

Like, none.

And the shampoo felt creamy.

But that didn't tip me off. Instead, I thought the shampoo must be faulty and added another huge dollop.

More of the same.

I won't bore you with the details except to say that it took me three dollops before it registered that I was soaking in Pantene conditioner for coloured hair.

Shortly afterward, I jammed the wand in my eye.

And it all went south from there.

As is always the case, the masacara wand never lies and I had the day from hell.

Right down to five minutes ago when I plopped myself in front of the computer with a bag of my roasted cashews to munch on.

Dammit, it if I couldn't get the twist tie off!!

So I went in MacGyver style, and made a new hole.



I'm sure it's not lost on any of you regulars, the shadow to the left of the bag.

Screw the liquid greens. It was a double wand day!

And that's the blog.

But tell me... what things tip you off that a bad day might be looming? Ever had a double wand day? As always, my enquiring mind want to know!

How Much Is That Doggie In the Window?

On Saturday morning I awoke to a fresh wave of sadness and one thing on my mind: we had to get a new dog.

A new puppy to ease our pain. A sweet little soul who would go on "Ziggy walks" and make everything better.

But as much as this seemed like the absolute right decision, I had no idea how I would broach it with the Poolboy - after all, he was grieving too and most likely wouldn't be ready to take such a massive step so soon after losing our dog.

It was the right thing to do, though, I was sure of it, and armed with the most persuasive argument I could come up with, I made my way to the living room only to find the Poolboy sitting with the Classifieds laid out in front of him on the "Dogs for Sale" page.

We're nothing if we're not not compatible.

"What're you looking at?" I asked.

"Just getting an idea of what's out there."

"You mean, like, dogs?"

At which point the PB broke down and said he needed somebody to walk again. That Ziggy was his friend and he didn't know what he was going to do without him.

In other words, there was no need for me to convince him.

To the contrary, I found myself in the unusual position of having to be the voice of reason.

So I got reasonable.

"Maybe we should google pet loss," I said, "And see if its a good idea to get into another puppy so soon.

Which of course it wasn't. Every damn pet loss site advised that people wait.

But that's never been our forte.

As evidenced by the exercise bike, treadmill, love birds, Elvis plate collection, and the complete set of Childcraft encyclopedias we bought for TH on credit.

If it's shiny, pretty, or claims to give you a better life, we want it, and we're willing to pay for it.

In high interest monthly installments.

A recipe for disaster when you're on the way to a pet store to look at a litter of maltese puppies.



I know.

Meanwhile, before anybody gets upset with me, I am as ethically opposed to pet stores that sell dogs as the next gal. All I can tell you is that the PB and I were half out of our minds, and as such, all reasonable thought went right out the car window.

So much so that I began giving him a pep talk on the way there lest he change his mind.

"I don't care if the grief sites say you should wait - that's not who we are. We've never thought things over or comparison shopped before and it's always turned out fine. "

(Um, not really - but remember, I was in denial)

And then feeling like I was on the road to recovery I announced,

"I think we should pick out names."

Sensing his wife had reached Defcon Crazy 10, a sense of self preservation activated within the Poolboy resulting in less and less excitement as we made our way to the mall.

This, of course, only egged me on so that when I finally got an eye full of those white little balls of fluff, I knew we were bringing home a puppy.

The only problem was, which puppy was mine?

In our family, we have a deep seated belief that animal and owner will feel an instant connection the moment their eyes meet and on that basis you will know your dog when you see him (or her).

By now the Poolboy had completely cooled his jets and was waiting at a coffee shop across from the pet shop - probably praying to God that I'd come to my senses so he wouldn't have to put the hammer down himself.

But it didn't look promising because crazy grief stricken dog lady was stalking the cage and tapping the glass trying to get the attention of one little boy - certain he was mine.

Tap Tap Tap

"Hellooooooooooo little doggy....."

Tap Tap Tap

"Helloooooooooooooooooooooooooooo little guy..."

Tap Tap Tap Whistle

Tap Tap Tap DAMMIT!

Tap Tap Tap what the hell is wrong with this dog?

Tap Tap Tap Nothing

And then...

Eye Contact!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

At which point he yelped, recoiled, and ran for his life to the other side of the cage.

They say animals can sense things, and I believe it. Just like Ziggy the day he jumped into the back seat of our car and said "Get me the hell outta here," that little dog knew one false move or overt act of cuteness was going to get him ten years to life with a crazy lady who wasn't ready or destined to be his mom.

With big tears in my eyes, I turned away from the pet store.

It just wasn't time.

***

When we got home, we took a more sensible approach and discovered there's a reputable miniature schnuzer breeder very close to where we live. We are on the wait list for a new puppy in the spring of 2010 and will be meeting our new babies parents in mid November.

Giving us enough time to grieve, and get things set up for a brand new little life in our home.

You can be sure I'll be blogging about it.

Sharing in the joy of a new life, and the chaos it will bring, comforted in the knowledge of old friends who knew Ziggy and were there with us, every step of the way during the painful journey toward goodbye.

Thankyou everyone.

I don't know what I would have done without you.

The Four Stages of Grief As Expressed Down The Bulk Foods Aisle

After we buried Ziggy the Poolboy and I were in such a state of grief and shock we needed to find something to do with ourselves other than curl into the fetal position and cry for the rest of the day.

In retrospect, that might have been the better option.

Instead, out of some kind of deep seated need for self preservation, we opted for more familiar comfort and dragged our grief stricken selves, along with the Poolboy's clipped and categorized coupons, to the grocery store because that's what we do.

Before we go any further, I want you to understand that as bad as I was feeling, the fashion statement I had going on fully reflected that.

God only knows what it was that I pulled on before we made our way to the vet that morning, but I remember quite clearly that all my jeans were in the wash leaving me no choice but to wear what I refer to as my tweedle dums - a pair of cropped spandex yoga pants that come to just mid calf and aren't really the most flattering.

Add to that, one of TH's big red rugby hoodies, flip flops (in late October) and a baseball cap over hair that desperately needed shampoo and you've created the kind of look I like to call "Dear God, don't let anyone recognize me."

Which provides the ideal beacon for any and all to spot you.

I was just making my way past the bulk foods after filling a bag with roasted unsalted cashews (very good in salads btw) when I heard someone calling my name.

I turn around to see a pretty and petite blonde woman who appears to have recognized me from somewhere despite my swollen, bloodshot, just got back from the crack house, look.

To make matters worse, I had absolutely no idea who she was.

Which I guess must have been apparent because not thirty seconds into our exchange she says "You don't know who I am, do you?"

Not a clue.

"It's Cathy," she tells me, "Glen's wife.

And then I started to put it together.

This was the woman who tried to talk me into joining toastmasters last year - convinced that, even though I speak professionally for a living and am actually pretty good at it, it would change my life.

The same woman who's husband is a well respected addictions counsellor in our area.

People, even in grief I remain neurotic, so that the first thought flying through my head was, "Good Lord! She's going to think I'm an addict and report back to her husband!"

Instead of having her think that, I opted instead for crazy person and proceeded to tell her my dog had just been put down and that though I'm sure I appeared to look high, I most assuredly wasn't.

I ended the exchange with, "Do you shop here often?"

Trapped by the bulk nuts, the poor woman had no other recourse than to continue to make small talk and offer condolences.

To the good, I'll bet it will be a long time before she accosts some other unsuspecting person she barely knows at the grocery store to say hello.

***

After we got home and the groceries were put away the reality of our loss descended upon us.

This was really happening and Ziggy was really gone.

Little did I know Friday evening that the raw craziness of grief had only just begun, and that, for the Poolboy and I, this wasn't going to be something we just "got over."

***

Stay tuned tomorrow for: "I Think We Should Buy Another Dog"

Until then, do you have any stories to share or advice to give on how you got through the initial days and weeks after a loss. If so, I really would like to hear them...

As always, you know...

So Long Old Friend

Those who have been around the blog awhile know who I refer to when I speak of the Karaoke Queen.

But for those who don't, let me bring you up to speed.

The Karaoke Queen is this larger than life, big hearted, God fearing woman who, when not attending church, has a tendency to slip into more secular ways.

It was on the basis of her secular side that I was befriended and we discovered a shared suffering from a common affliction: The burning desire to sing karaoke.

As such, it wasn't unusual for her to kidnap me on weekends when she wasn't attending church,and haul me off somewhere to drink Alabama Slammers while we channeled our inner stars.

Unfortunately - and as is often the case with these kinds of friends - the man I married wasn't fond of her. In fact, so intense was the Poolboy's dislike, he refused not only to accompany us to karaoke, but to be within ten feet of her at any given time.

Which made it difficult for me because she was constantly inviting us over for dinner and was beginning to wonder why I kept declining. Generally speaking, people like the Karaoke Queen are not ones to take a hint.

And so after much begging and pleading with the Poolboy because, let's face it, the woman was wearing me down, he agreed to go to dinner.

That's the thing about life. You never know which apparently random decisions aren't random at all.

***

When we arrived at her place on the night of the dinner, we were pleasantly surprised. It was beautifully decorated with a homey, welcoming feel. She had candles lit, and wonderful smells coming from the kitchen - better still, her family, who I had really never met before seemed like nice people.

Maybe it would be okay.

But then she said it.

A seemingly inncocent statment comprised of five words:

"Someone let the dogs up."

And our lives were changed forever.

One moment we were sitting by peaceful candlelight, and the next, two of the wildest, most boisterous, unkempt - not to mention incredibly smelly - dogs made their way upstairs and into the dining room where they proceeded to run and around and bark like lunatics.

One of them, a golden lab retriever named Chloe, managed to calm herself down, but the other - a little black ball of matted fur named Ziggy - targetted the Poolboy and jumped right into his lap.

Of course I, ever at the ready to be polite, gushed over this little black ball of matted fur, exclaiming we had always wanted a dog like him (except cleaner, less wild, and preferably with fresh breath).

A lesser person wouldn't have noticed the subtle shift that took place in the room upon my declaration, but being the amazing fake psychic I am, I did.

KQ looked over at ther husband, who looked over at the PB, and then ever so innocently asked: "Do you want him?"

Apparently he had been purchased during a marital dispute.

Some people, when angry with their other half will yell and scream. The Karaoke Queen, on the other hand, bought dogs. And it was Ziggy's unfortunate fate that her husband on this basis, hated him.

Up until then, the majority of Ziggy's time was spent in the garage.

People, I swear to God that dog knew exactly what was going on, and like an inmate with his last chance to break free of Attica, he snuggled in closer to the PB and, as if to seal the deal, gave him a bit wet, lick up the side of his face.

With that one loving gesture, he stole our hearts and sealed his fate.

Ziggy would be a Christmas present for TH.

The plan was that we would drive over Christmas morning and pick up a freshly groomed Ziggy wearing a giant red bow and drive off into the sunset a happy, more complete family.

Except for the "more complete" part, which turned out to be true, the rest of the scenario didn't quite play out the way we planned. Though I tried to give KQ money in advance to have the dog professionally groomed, she insisted she was going to do it herself.

Why am I so gullible?

Christmas Eve morning rolled around and, just as planned, the Karaoke Queen, with her voice disguised as Santa called.

She was probably that much more believable playing the part of a white haired old man because unbeknownst to us, she'd been to karaoke the night before.

I figure that despite her best intentions, she must have decided to take a brief snooze between grooming the front and back of the dog so that the sight we were met with when we arrived to pick up Santa's package can only be described as Dog on Crack.

With a nasty looking crumpled red bow affixed to his head, and his sprightly little body only half shaved, Ziggy came bounding out of her place, took one look at me and the Poolboy and pretty much figured it was now or never.

Before TH even had a chance to register that this was to be his Christmas present, the dog was in the back seat and ready to roll.

I figure he was thinking "Get me the hell outta here before they change their mind."

And believe you me, on the ride back home, I had serious doubts - which I couldn't vocalize because TH was already in love.

Meanwhile, Marv and Aurora, who were living out of town at the time, had come to spend the holidays at our place and I was a nervous wreck over what their reaction to this wild little dog was going to be.

We made an emergency pit stop at Walmart to pick up a leash, a collar, and some doggie cologne, stopped at the PB's mom's place to try and fix him up a bit, and then took him home.

My mother has shared that until the day she dies she will never forget the expressions on all three of our faces as the dog walked us through the entrance of what was to be his new home, while the PB muttered "I told her this wasn't a good idea," under his breath.

A half a second later Ziggy came nose to nose with the cat.

I see it still in slow motion.

There was a bark, then a lunge, followed by a grey streak of lightning flying across the living room, over Marv's head, and onto the Christmas tree with the dog in hot pursuit.

The whole tree came down, the cat took off, and Ziggy stood beside the downed tree with his chest puffed out as if to say, "Let me at em!"

In that moment he became "Ziggy Doo" and for the last eleven and a half years he's given us nothing but love and happiness.

I used to wonder if loving a pet, given the short amount of time we're graced with their presence is worth the inevitable heartbreak that comes when they leave.

After having been so blessed as to spend time with this wonderful little dog, my answer is yes.

Unequivocally and undeniably yes.

***

On Friday, October 16th, 2009 at 10:30 in the morning, Ziggy's struggles came to an end.

With TH, the Poolboy, and I by his side, our vet gave him his final bit of medicine and he drifted away.

As you can imagine, the last few days have been incredibly difficult.

When you lose a pet, you don't just lose a part of your family, you lose a thread that has been intricately woven into the fabric of your life.

In the space of time it takes to pour a glass of water everything changes, and you are left to figure out what home is going to be like without two little ears and a black nose waiting excitedly by the window when you get home from work. You walk past familiar landmarks and choke back hot, painful tears because this is where he stopped to pee everyday, and that was his favourite place to chase crows.

You realize the difference between body and spirit as your lonely heart registers the enormity of emptiness this little creature has left behind.

And you struggle to come to terms with the reality that, in this life anyway, you will never see your little friend again.

I woke up this morning and there was no one waiting patiently by the bed for his breakfast, a good morning song, and a walk. Even the cat, who has taken Ziggy's departure surprisingly hard, chose not to join me for our morning ritual.

But perhaps the person to take this the hardest of all has been the Poolboy, who's Cape Breton island body was not only put together by God in a size "Extra large" - his heart was too.

We buried our little boy in the woods just off a favourite path where we've walked him for years...



We found a spot with a brand new Christmas tree growing.

As the years go by and other little dogs join our family, coming on what will forever be referred to as "Ziggy's walk," we will watch that Christmas tree grow. A symbol of our undying love until we are all together once again.



Rest in peace my dear little boy...



Ziggy Doo, squirrel and crow chaser extraordinaire, beloved family member, confidante, loyal adviser, peacemaker, and friend.

April 15, 1997 - October 16, 2009

Forever in our hearts...

The Quirks and Quarks of a Middle Aged Divah

Not that this is going to come as any big newsflash, but it dawned on me this morning that I'm a little quirky.

(stop laughing people - you know that I know who YOU are)

My morning started the way it always does during the work week:

Wake up for the first time at 6:00 am, grunt and moan over the inhumanity of it all, and then close my eyes for "five more minutes" which invariably stretches into a half hour. Roust myself from a fabulous dream, take a swig of water from the glass I keep on my nightstand, and force myself out of the rack.

Head down the hall like some kind of middle aged unkempt pied piper with the cat and dog at my heels, pour a cup of coffee, open the blinds, feed the animals, and plunk myself in front of the computer to respond to blog comments, update my Twitter and Facebook, and read favourite bloggers.

So far, pretty standard.

From there, I usually make breakfast.

This morning it was a fried egg with turky bacon on whole wheat and a glass of greens energy blend.

Then I showered, did my hair and makeup, got dressed, walked the dog, and got ready to leave for my first meeting of the day.

Before leaving, though, I decided to visit the powder room.

And this is what I saw:



Quirk number 1: After taking a shower I have to completely close the curtain in order for it to uniformly dry.

Except that after walking the dog and being out of the house for a few minutes, I usually realize (and this is a daily occurence) that there could be a wild rapist or serial killer lurking behind the shower curtain just waiting to get me during an unsuspecting moment on the toilet.

Which brings me to quirk #2:



The slow opening of the shower curtain to see if a homicidal maniac lurks behind it.



It dawned in me this morning that, though I'm incredibly methodical and diligent in my investigative work, I don't really have a plan outside of screaming like a banshee and running for my life should a serial rapist show up in my tub.

Reason 976 why I was the second worse police officer in Canadian history.

Other quirks include...

**disclaimer**

I have to take a quick break from the telling of this blog to share the conversation I just had with the Poolboy.

When I wrote "other quirks include" I conferred with him to get further data and, much like letting a genie out of its bottle, his response of "Oh yeah, you've got quirks," was uttered with so much zest and enthusiasm it was really quite shocking.

I am simply dictating at this point:

Me: Tell me about my quirks.
PB: You don't have any.
Me: Oh, Come ON! Just list them
PB: Okay. Well, you tend to be a bit controlling at times.

Silence.

PB: And you're impressions of drunk celebrities make you come off as a bit of a weirdo.

***

I'm glad I gave the man ample opportunity to air his grievances.

Maybe next time I'll list his quirks.

***

And that's the blog.

But tell me. Got any quirks of your own? Any weird things you do you'd like to come clean about and share?

If so, you know the drill...

Dish It!

Enquiring minds want to know.

Until then, see you bright and early Monday morning and have a fabulously good weekend!

You're Gonna Love My Nuts

The other night I was watching tv and an infomercial featuring Vince the Shamwow guy came on for a new product called Slapchop.

The patented Slapchop is a kitchen device designed to help with the inconvenient job of chopping nuts and vegetables.

As Vince puts it, "You'll be slapping your life away."

And you'll especially love his nuts.



I can't help myself. Everytime I see it, I want to slap my life away too.

But the Poolboy has to talk me down because I've always been a sucker for gimmicks and devices.

I figure, however, I'm not alone.

Show of hands anyone who currently owns a Shamwow...

***

Everyone's trying to sell us something.

If you're overweight there's a pill, plan, frozen meal, shake, cook book, magazine, snack food, operation, or doctor with a liposuction device just waiting for you to reach your breaking point (again) and make him (or her) a whole lotta money.

But do you notice the paradox of a multi-billion dollar industry who's apparent goal of getting people thin has resulted in a society where folks not only hate themselves, they're fatter than ever?

I've said it once but it bears saying again...

If losing weight and keeping it off was simple or something easily purchased, Oprah Winfrey would be thin.

We live in a society so afraid to accept pain or percieved imperfection that its no wonder the abundance of infomercials and commercials gracing our TV screens touting the amazing restorative powers of certain drugs.

Medications that come with about a gazillion side effects.

Call me crazy, but if one of the side effects of a well known drug for, say, depression is thoughts of suicide, perhaps that particular medication might be best left for people a little less vulnerable.

Same thing for heart meds that list risk of stroke.

Which makes me wonder, yet again, why we're all so up in arms against marijuana.

As far as I know, the only side effect to smoking pot, besides solving all the great problems of the universe, is the munchies. So unless you're also wanting to medicate for a weight problem, pot might be your answer.

But then I'm natural that way.

I love anything that smacks of ancient tribal wisdom, herbal remedies, or a buzz of any kind.

Which is why an infomercial this weekend for a product called Sam E Complete, a natural remedy to help women re-discover their good moods caught my eye.

These little tablets not only make women feel better, they restore marriages, libido, and general outlook on life so that women can stop sweating the small stuff.

But when I told the PB about it, excited about the prospect of what it might do for our marriage, he said "We've got all the Sam E we need" and proceeded to the liquor cabinet where he pulled out a bottle of tequila.

Another reason why liquor day is a hallowed occasion around this place.

And that's the blog.

But tell me, ever fall for a stupid product via an infomercial or other kind of advertisement - if so what was the product?

As always, enquiring minds want to know!

A Martha Stewart Thanksgiving Maven Style

If you're stopping by looking for recipes and my Thanksgiving Planner, just click the link and it will take you my Makeahead Planner.

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Another Canadian Thanksgiving has come and gone and as evidenced by one of my favourite movies Home for the Holidays, I know my family isn't alone with its many quirks and foibles.



(take note: my trusty planner at the ready)

Just one year, though, it would be nice to get through the day without a happening or two.

And when I say "happening" I'm referring to anything from a full blown Thanksgiving disaster, like the year our power went out while I was roasting the turkey and the Poolboy had to drive it 20 miles into town to my parent's place, to lesser mishaps like thinking I ruined the gravy.

This year, true to form, the Martha Stewartesque holiday perfection I envisioned eluded me yet again.

I'll set the scene.

As per my holiday planner, all day Saturday was spent in pyjamas with racoon eyes and hair standing on end while I made the stuffing, mashed potatoes, toasted almonds, set the table and prepared dessert.

It may not sound like much, but people, prep takes time.

On Sunday morning when I got up, I was faced with the fabulosity of being a well organized cook and anticipated nothing less than a day of pilgrim inspired bliss as I arranged pumpkins and gourds all over the house and around the front porch.

After a nice cup of coffee followed by one of my banana chocolate protein smoothies, I got the bird prepped and into the oven and then formed up my buns.



I was so on the ball, I even had time to poach TH a couple of eggs before I got in the shower.

Feeling minty and refreshed, thanks to my favourite soap, Demon in the Dark by LUSH, I blow dried, put on makeup, and then got into my Thanksgiving day uniform of apron, jeans, and a short sleeve blouse.

Being that the PB's favourite romantic movie of all time is Witness starring Kelly McGillis as an Amish woman, the sight of me in my apron always gets his juices flowing.



Come hither young Poolboy...

And before I knew it he was insisting I take the dog for a walk while in my apron because I "looked so cute."

Flattery, as you know, will get you everywhere with me.

Soon enough I was sachaying down our driveway like the next contestant on America's Next Top Model, all the while hoping the neighbours would get a glimpse of me in my holiday finery and understand they were in the presence of holiday greatness.

Who else but me, the well organized cook, had time to walk the dog in the middle of Thanksgiving preparations?

But before I had a chance to wave and look nonchalant as one of my neighbours passed me on her bike, the dog began to strain and grunt.

Good Lord!

He was constipated.

I told the PB not to give him steak.

Five minutes later, with me still standing there in my apron and the poor dog straining to make something happen, I began to panic - I had a dinner to prepare and constipation was definitely not on the planner!

So I began calling the Poolboy to come and lend some assistance.

Apparently the man I married is hard of hearing and didn't so much as poke his head out the door causing me to have leave the poor dog straining by the azalea bushes while I marched up the front walk and into the door to summon him.

It didn't take long before we realized we were going to have to go in.

Luckily, I keep a bag of disposable surgical glves handy for just these occasions and between the two of us with me and my apron right down in the thick of it, and the PB hollering insructions, we managed to extract the offending poop from the poor dogs bum and run a clean up mission.

All while my house filled with the succulent smells of turkey dinner.

Of course, when Marv and Aurora arrived they were none the wiser.

As such, the rest of the day went off without a hitch with Aurora exclaiming her standard kudos that the meal was epicurious and to die for.

Good thing I made a lot, though.

After I packed up half of the leftovers for Marv and Aurora, a marauding crew of hungry teenage boys descended upon my refrigerator sometime between 1:00 and 2:00 in the morning while the PB and I peacefully slumbered.

There's still plenty of turkey left for sandwiches and another full turkey dinner tonight but I can, unfortunately, not say the same thing for my pumpkin cheesecakes.

Which were, apparently, popular...



And that's the blog.

Do you usually do the cooking at holidays like Thanksgiving or do you go somewhere? If so where, and out of all the traditional foods which is your favourite?

Mine's the gravy :-)

***

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The Poolboy Stays Fresh and Dry

As long time readers can attest, the man I married - affectionately known as the Poolboy - has become quite the consumer watchdog.

Whether it be battling the elderly at our local discount bread outlet for loaves of expired rye or pumpernickel, clipping coupons, or buying his seasonal attire from the $5.00 and under rack at Walmart, ever since he blew out the candles on his fortieth birthday cake, purchasing goods at discount prices has become his manly obsession.

Forget credit cards, or anything else that might accrue interest, the Poolboy, who was once as free with his money as Kanye West with an opinion, changed as middle age set in.

Suddenly everything in our world came with a price tag and blanket statements like "Can you belive the price on this!" or "Robbery!" in the middle of the chip and dip aisle at our local grocery store became the norm rather than the exception.

To combat raging prices, the Poolboy has taken to buying edible goods that come labelled with neon orange discount stickers - with the stickers indicating that not only has the product's price been slashed by at least fifty percent, it has either reached or expired its "Best Before" date - which isn't necessarily what you want with products like yogurt or cream cheese.

"It's fine," says the Poolboy as he digs into a container of expired Yoptimal.

If you thought the probiotic cultures were powerful with the original, you have to try the post dated version... forget the Yoptimal two week challenge, the two hour challenge is about all you need around our house.

Of course, TH and I won't touch anything with an orange label, the Poolboy's discount bread, or the variety of unusual snack items he purchases for himself at Liquidation World, or Dollarama - a store he's only recently discover, God help us, where he likes to go and get his shop on Saturday mornings before he hits Cash Converters to search for used music and DVD's.

Marital bliss.

It's about turning a blind eye when he arrives home with a big bag full of expired Dad's Goodie Rings, or General Foods International Coffee in much the same way I require he play dumb when I come home with bags from Holt Renfrew.

What?

I wait till the shoes go on sale before I get serious.

But just as we got assimilated to orange labelled dairy items and learned to avoid them, the PB discovered another facet of his money saving self: clipping coupons and filling out consumer surveys on household items.

I don't remember how it all began except to say it was around the same time he started getting a publication entitled "Consumer Reports" in the mail.

Which has made him quite the expert if you're looking for the best prices on laundry soap or floor wax, but verging on the annoying when his shipments of coupons, free samples, and surveys come in.

It's gotten so the man can't wait to get the mail.

He finishes up his dinner most nights and then its off to the mailbox to see what's come in.

And when he gets a package - look out.

Sitting in the living room with his scissors, calculator (for answering skill testing questions) and other paraphernalia layed out on the coffee table before him, he begins.

Of course, it's never a solitary pursuit.

Why?

Because most of the coupons and product recommendations that come in are geared toward the ladies.

Which means that on the night the package arrives, I'd better be prepared to answer a lot of questions.

Questions like: "What brand of hair dye do you use?"

"Did you like that Midol PM?"

And, "Do you ever use panti-liners?"

Which brings me to last Friday.

The Poolboy was working late so I thought I'd go check the mail myself and this is what arrived addressed to him:





If you look closely you'll see that the above package from the good people at the Kimberly Clarke Corporation came addressed to "Mr."

Upon further examination, the Poolboy has received a complete set of day and night panti-liner samples from a new product line called "Fresh and Dry" by Kotex.

If the product claims to be as good as the packaging suggests, the Poolboy should be able to "Move through his day", and "Snooze through his nights" with renewed confidence.

And that's the blog.

But first...

Do you or your partner ever get cheap, and if so, what things do you get cheap about?

As always, enquiring minds want to know!

Stay tuned tomorrow for "A Martha Stewart Thanksgiving - Maven Style" right here on A Fabulously Good Life.

***

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