The Elora Phoney Palace

     Once upon a time, there were three poor women looking for an adventure. Well, two of them were looking for an adventure. The other one just really wanted a soy-free burger that wouldn't make her face turn red and give her the squirts. But, all three of them decided to go to The Elora Phoney Palace - a magical tent that just appears like magic in the Grand River Valley.

     The first poor, old woman (Gertie), was very bossy and liked to drive. So, she came up with the plan for the adventure and picked up the second poor, old woman (Pearl), and then the third poor, old woman (Mavis). Gertie, Pearl and Mavis were just starting out when they came upon a big, old, red light - which Gertie proceeded to ignore because she was very excited about the adventure.

Creepy motherfucking sculpture in Elora

     Pearl and Mavis were a little concerned about Gertie ignoring the big, old, red light. 

     "Did you diiiiiie?" asked Gertie. But, no one died so everything was ok.

     The first stop on the adventure was a place called Doodoo's Bakery in a town called Bailieboro where it is said some of the best butter tarts in Ontario can be found. Gertie ate her butter tart quickly and was soon revved up like a deuce on sugar, sugar, sugar! Mavis bought six tarts to save for later. Pearl couldn't have the best butter tarts in Ontario because they might have soy in them.

     On Friday afternoon, the road to the Elora Phoney Palace is very busy and alot of the fucking idiots on the road don't know how to drive. Many of the assholes along the way would drive in the passing lane, even if they weren't passing. Sometimes, the car in front of them would slam on their brakes for no apparent fucking reason, which gave Gertie road rage while Mavis and Pearl started getting a bit of whiplash. Mavis' tarts kept flying out of the back seat and smushing on the floor.

     "Did you diiiiiiiie?" asked Gertie, when Mavis complained about her smushed tarts. But, no one died so everything was ok.

     Pearl was checking the map to make sure that they arrived at the Elora Phoney Palace in good time. So, when the women got to Guelph, she told Gertie to turn left at the exit onto Highway 6. Gertie refused to turn left. She was sure that would take them south and they clearly wanted to go north. However, they ended up on the wrong road. Gertie still refused to listen to Pearl's directions and demanded that Pearl keep her eyes down for the rest of the gawdamn way! 

     But, when they finally arrived in the Grand River Valley, there was no Elora Phoney Palace. Mavis lost her shit!

     "Oh heeeellll no. Everything is supposed to be set up. You said.."

     "I know I said," Gertie replied.

     "You said... wait!" Mavis interrupted.

     "You saw the email," Gertie protested.

     "You said, 'We're gonna be there at four?" Mavis demanded.

     "I said, 'We're gonna be there at four." Gertie confirmed.

     "She said, ' Check in is at two," Mavis averred.

     "She said, 'Check in is at two," Gertie repeated.

     "Check in is at two... Check, check, CHECK!" Mavis yells, pointing at the very flat, circle of tent laying on the ground at campsite #40. "Listen. To what I'm going to say right now.... This clearly is not going to work."

     So, the three poor, old women went for dinner because, clearly, Mavis had low blood sugar. They had crepes (without soy) and everyone was very happy. They bought some booze from a place that looked like a church (which was weird) and, when they returned, the Elora Phoney Palace was magically in place. The adventure could continue.

     The Grand River Valley doesn't allow people to have booze or drink it. Not sure why. Perhaps it is the reason they don't have mosquitoes. But, the women just drank the booze out of Tim Horton's cups because Fuck that Shit. They had a lovely fire, but they soon ran out of wood. So, Mavis pulled a tree out of the forest and they set that on fire. 

     Mavis farted alot in the Elora Phoney Palace. Kielbasa makes her farts smell like really bad roasted turkey. And, Pearl snores a little. It was also about minus 12. But, Gertie had never slept better.

     The first quest for the morning on Saturday was to get coffee and tea from Tim Horton's because life is just better with coffee and tea. Gertie got lots of hash browns because the internet promised they were not made with soy. Gertie got an 18-cheese bagel, which is ridiculous because there is no reason to have that much cheese in anything. 

     By the time they returned to the Grand River, there was a big lineup at the tire store. The tire store doesn't even friggin' open until 9 a.m., but there was a lineup of 70 people at 8:15 a.m. This was some bullshit. The poor, old women needed tires to float down the Grand River with all of the other people. It was an essential part of the adventure. At least the women had coffee and tea while they waited in the lineup. And, they made some friends with some of the other people around them while they waited. Meanwhile, Gertie made fun of Pearl's orange flip flops, Mavis made fun of Gertie's yoga poses and Pearl made fun of Mavis' foot phobia. 

     "It doesn't seem like you three like each other very much," remarked the new friend they had made in the lineup. But, that's what it's like when you're best friends. So, what the fuck does he know.

     In spite of Gertie's skepticism, the women were able to procure three fat tires, helmets and safety vests in order to float down the river. They had to sign waivers because a) the possibility of being ejected from your tube does exist, b) hazardous rocks may be present below the surface of the water and c) foot entrapment in submerged rocks is possible. They also had to walk miles and miles to the river and they were exhausted... but they didn't diiiiie. However, Tim Horton's hash browns are definitely made with soy, which made Pearl have to shit.

     The next quest for the three poor, old women was to travel to St. Jacob's where there is supposed to be a big market full of good things to eat and buy. The market is, indeed, huge and full of many interesting things. Gertie pigged out on Samosas, spicy pepperettes, apple fritters and real potato chips. Pearl was able to find some granola that didn't have soy, and a piece of focaccia, but no burger. It was very hot, so they bought some fresh squeezed lemonade in 1 liter jugs. But, there were lots of chunks of lemon rind and lemon seeds in the bottom that made Mavis want to puke. The drinks would have been much better without chunks and maybe a bit of gin or vodka. 

     The quest for a soy-free burger took them all the way to Fergus, a town of predominantly Scottish heritage with a big, wooden man in a kilt on the main street. The Fergusson Room Pub was supposedly the best place to find a soy-free burger, so they went there. They had a great meal and a very nice server and everyone was happy.

     Gertie brought her mala beads to try to stay calm whenever things got too stressful. She had to repeat her mantra, wishing everyone peace and love, every once in a while because some people are just too stupid to live. For example, if the sign at the restaurant says "Please wait to be seated", you should fucking-well wait to be seated. Also, don't ask your server where the chicken wings are on the menu. The server gave you a menu so you could fucking read it. She is not going to read it for you, you stupid twat.  In conclusion, don't order two glasses of water at a restaurant, ask your server a bunch of stupid questions and then decide that you don't want anything at that restaurant. Just don't leave your house anymore because you are an asshole. You and your crack-whore friend with the short skirt and stupid hair. 

     Pearl and Mavis could not understand Gertie's mantra because it is in Sanskrit. But, they thought it sounded alot like Chaka Kahn. So, to help clear her chakras, they decided to play some Chaka Kahn. This was incredibly therapeutic and soon everyone's chakras were very clear. They were all dancing and singing in the car and having so much fun. Mavis even put her foot up on the passenger-side door so she could do the "stanky leg" dance. This caused Gertie to scream, "Let your pussy out!" Which really made no fucking sense. Mavis had no intention of letting her pussy out. She was just really feeling the beat. Pearl didn't want to see Mavis' pussy either. She was glad to be in the back seat. They all laughed so hard because Gertie is a real dumbass with a bit of Tourette's syndrome. They had to pull over because Gertie couldn't see the road; she was laughing and crying so hard. But, they didn't diiiiie, which was good.

     They all went to the Grand River Casino later on, hoping to win some money. Mavis won 34 cents, but Pearl and Gertie lost all their money. They all went back to the Elora Phoney Palace and drank some more booze from their 1 liter jugs until they fell asleep.

    In the morning, they had soy-free eggs and ham at The Social Box, which is really the best breakfast you can get anywhere. And, they lived happily ever after.

OCD and SCD = Two things that go Greeeeat Together.

     If you ever get the chance to try Scottish Country Dancing, just do it. You'll laugh your fool head off and sweat like a whore in church! Just don't bring your Obsessive Compulsive nonsense with you.

     Big Rod and I just returned from our first lesson at the Yacht Club in Picton. We were one of the first couples there. It was just us and another lady from a retirement community nearby sitting in a corner making small talk and thinking we didn't have enough people for a Ceileidh (the Gaelic term for a Scottish hoedown). But, more and more people started showing up and joining in the fun.

     Poor Rod was thrown to the wolves almost immediately, being one of the only men. And, they don't really tell you what's going to happen. It's alot like the first time you do Zumba... You get a couple of quick demonstrations, then the music comes on and it's all legs and arms and feet everywhere. He was a pro. He had his heels and his toes in all the right spots and always knew which way to turn.

     The basic gist of things, is to skip around in circles, weave in and out between other people and always, ALWAYS be holding someone's hand. Seriously, you've got to check your germaphobe shit at the door! You hold your partners' hands, you hold hands in a circle, you hold hands to spin around, you hold hands like you're playing London Bridge (which is even worse because it is sweaty and people have to walk under your stinky, drippy armpits!) Some people have those clammy, just-came-from-the-bathroom-and-we're-out-of-paper-towels, kind of hands. You can't pull away in disgust! You just have to keep your social phobias to yourself and smile.

     If your partner forgets to "pas-de-basque" before you "doh-see-doh", you can't stop the music and start again. You've just got to catch up. And, you can't mess around. There's no time for error! One of the dances we did (with a London Bridge situation) requires running from one and of the room to the other behind all the other couples and giving a high five to your partner before running back and grabbing someone by the (sweaty) palm and walking around in circles again. I was exhausted and my partners, who were AT LEAST 20 years older than me, gently suggested that I should move it or lose it. It was shameful really.
   
     I also stepped on my own foot and nearly took out my partner, which would have created an epic domino effect had I not recovered before the allemande.

     All jokes aside, I can't wait to go next week. And kudos to my husband for trying something new outside of the bedroom just to make me happy.

Elvis Costello - Veronica

She used to have a carefree mind of her own and a devilish look in her eye

     I don't like small children and retirees. Plain and simple. There are, of course, exceptions to this rule. There are some small children that I think are totes adorbs. Even when they are being little bastards. Similarly, there are old people that I connect with. even if they are crotchety old pricks.
     The reason for this passionate dislike of all things too young and too old probably stems from years in the service industry - children like to lay in the middle of the floor and scream where I am trying to walk with hot plates and they like to make a really big mess of EVERYTHING. Old people, on the other hand, like to take their sweet fucking time when placing their own orders, but want you to serve them without having to wait. They also like to complain about everything and then leave a tip that might have been acceptable in 1962.
     So, why in the name of Holy Pete Noble* did I take a job as a dietary aide at a local retirement home? Simple. I needed the money and I am terrible at blow jobs.
     But, "dietary aide" sounds nice and easy. Perhaps it involves mashing up food for people with no teeth. Perhaps I would be feeding people too feeble to lift their own spoons (who would also be too feeble to speak - fingers crossed). Maybe it's just running plates of healthy food out to hungry and grateful septuagenarians, who are (hopefully) fully functioning and pleasant individuals enjoying their golden years in comfort.
     I wash muhfucking dishes. That's what it means to be a dietary aide. Means I wash three courses worth of dishes for 35 people every shift for about two hours. The other two hours, I fill water glasses, serve coffee and tea, and take around a cookie tray before bed time. But, mostly, I wash muhfucking dishes.
     When I first started, most of the residents wanted to know how my classes were going. They all assumed I was still in high school. I should have been flattered by the unintended compliment considering I am in my forties. In fact, my pride was wounded horribly - only high school students had previously been employed here as dietary aides. And, it wasn't like they thought I looked young enough to be a teenager, it's just that their eyesight is bad and they made an assumption.
    Sigh. So, I struggled through the first few weeks. Swallowing my pride (I'm a college graduate, ffs!) and biting my tongue (minimum wage sucks ass). My eyes are firmly locked on the prize in the form of a ten day vacation in May, in which I will be backpacking through Massachussets... but that's another blog.
     Meanwhile, I've become very attached to some of the residents whose dishes I have been washing all the time. I've gotten to know all their preferences and all their little idiosyncrasies and...I've fallen in love. One man likes to take my hand in his every time he comes in for dinner. Not just a handshake, but a hand HOLD. This is one thing I really like about older people; when they take your hand and hold onto it while they speak to you. It's so comforting to me and... affectionate. Personal. Warm. It's just a good feeling.
     One lady likes coffee for dinner, but only filled three-quarters of the way and with half a teaspoon of sugar. Another man wants his tea filled all the way to the top so there's not enough room for the two milk he wants in it. Yet another woman wants milk for her tea before the tea is even poured AND she wants more milk than she will ever use... just in case.
    I'm in love with all of them. I'm in love with the lady who is so quiet and dainty who has a beautiful cat, but she eats more junk food than a seven year old on Halloween. I'm in love with the man who walks to the dining room every night because it has the best view of sunsets. I'm in love with the cantankerous woman who will hit you with her cane if you try to touch her walker, but beams when you bring her a snack and always wishes you a good night. I'm in love with the old dairy farmer who falls asleep at the table so I have to vacuum around his feet until someone comes to take him to his room.
     Yeah, it's been pretty good times with this bunch of hoodlums. LOL. One day, while waiting for lunch, I overheard this conversation between a woman at one table and a man at the table behind her.
     Sally**: Bill***, is Tiger playing golf today or tomorrow?
     Bill: What did she say?
     Sally: I wanna know if Woods is golfing today. Do you know?
     Bill: I can't hear you, Sally. What are you asking me?
     Sally: Oh for goodness sake. When is Tiger playing?
     Bill: Yeah, I'm having the chicken salad sandwich!
     Sherla (at this point, I intervene because everyone is yelling at everyone else): Bill, Sally wants to know when Tiger Woods is playing golf.
     Bill: Oh... I don't know. I don't watch golf.
     So, it is with some sadness that I am leaving my new friends to meet some crazy hippies while hiking through the Berkshires. But, I won't miss dish pan hands, stray peas that refuse to be sucked up with a vacuum and room temperatures that reach very close to 30- C even in the dead of winter.

*I don't know anyone named Pete Noble.
** Not her real name
***not his real name, obvsly
   

Oreo Cake

     In keeping with my need to eat all things Oreo-entated, this is how you make the cake pictured above.
     Prepare a chocolate cake mix in two round cake pans. Blend 3 1/2 cups powdered sugar, 1/2 Tbsp sugar, 1 tsp vanilla, 1/2 cup vegetable shortening and 3 Tbsp hot water. Roll the icing mixture into a disc and put it between the two cakes. Voila.

Landscaping - How it`s done.

     It`s been a cold winter here in Prince Edward County. January has been consistently in the negative, often negative double digits (Celsius). I could say that is why I haven`t been looking after myself. You know, regular maintenance stuff like shaving and buffing and moisturizing. But, it`s not so much the cold as just... who cares?

     This is a poor attitude to have! And, it contributes to poor self-worth that leads to hours of pity crocheting, watching repeats of the Incredible Doctor Pol and eating anything that vaguely resembles an Oreo. Oh, and facebooking. I scroll down my news feed about every half hour looking for answers to life's biggest questions. I mean, why else would I need to know what all the other losers are doing to waste their waking hours? (Sorry, friends. Don't unfriend me. You know it's true.)

     And then there's Youtube! Devilish little website that really does have all the answers to life's biggest questions! I've learned how to make a penny can stove, watched Nicki Minaj's Anaconda video like a hundred times to perfect my twerk, and watched several abscessed pimples explode! Oh my gawd, that zit popping stuff is better than porn (one of the few things I don't watch on the Internet, believe it or not).

     Speaking of spreading one's legs, I had a Pap smear two weeks ago. This was when I started to realize how far I have fallen this winter. My appointment was with a female intern. I figured if I just did a quick scrape of any excess undergrowth in my nether regions, she would understand. So, that's all she got. A quick scrape. Just around the flaps. I kept the 70s bush in the front for warmth. This is Canada and I feel it's my patriotic duty to protect the beaver.

My husband and I at a wedding in October.
Doesn't look like I even brushed my hair!

     In hindsight, I could have done better. I should be doing better! It should be my belated New Year's Resolution to landscape things a bit better. Not just "down there", but I have really let myself go in my 40s. If my husband does care, he doesn't say so. He's a freak anyway, and I like him that way ;) 

     First thing's first - get up off my ass. I've started a new job as a server at a retirement home; which I have come to understand (because everyone keeps telling me) is usually a job for highschoolers. No jokes, one of the PSWs, a woman 10 years younger than me, said the other day, "I used to do (your) job... back when I was in highschool!" The residents frequently ask me how school is going. I would take it as a compliment, but some are legally blind, so I can't.
     Meanwhile, I will use the Youtube to do every free, half-hour aerobic workout I can find. I do hip hop abs, Bollywood, jazzercize, Jane Fonda, walk-dancing and yoga... whatever I can find. Trust me, there's lots. My dog, Muffy, hates when I work out. At first she grabbed me by the shirt sleeve and tugged me to the ground, but now she just sulks around my feet and brings small items for me to step on.

     Step two, get back to the tanning bed. My pasty, fish belly fish belly and cottage cheese thighs could do with a bit of bronzing. I'm not looking to become a piece of beef jerky, I just like a nice sand colour. Dark enough to blend into the landscape at the Sandbanks. I don't buy any of those expensive creams that the Jersey Shore stars sell for an exorbitant amount per ounce. It's bad enough I have to pay for something that is free anywhere south of the Mason-Dixon line. The heat and light feels so good on a miserable January day full of cold slush on your feet and air that hurts your face.

     Next, scrubbing the feet. Cold, dry weather makes heels and toes build layers and layers of dead skin that cracks and catches on your nice clean bed sheets at night. It's horrible.

     Now, I thought about getting a pedicure at the mall, but I hate, hate, HATE anyone cutting my toenails and the skin around my toenails. It just sends me. Mother fuckers pick, pick, PICK at your feet for twenty minutes when all I really want them to do is soak 'em, scrub 'em and rub 'em with something luxurious and flowery. I REALLY hate, hate, hate that it will cost me $32 plus tax and tip to do it, too. Cheap bitch that I am, I bought a $5 pumice wand at the drug store and I'll scrub my own dogs raw while I watch the Super Bowl. Just the half-time show and the tight ends - that's what I like.

Nice eyebrows, not threaded though.
And, a nice scarf that I made

     Something that IS cool at the mall, and affordable to boot, is what they call threading. I have nice eyebrows, I think, but they get unruly sometimes. Threading is the coolest thing! I was directed by a woman of East Indian ancestry - now, I don't know if that's politically correct to say these days. If there's a more appropriate way to say it, I don't know, so I will apologize in advance. All I know is, she had really nice, kohl-rimmed eyes and I'm sure rich women would pay alot of money for her hair.

     Anyway, she takes this piece of thread, puts the ends of it in her mouth and magically (literally, I cannot scientifically explain how this is done) uses her hands and mouth to direct the thread around my eyebrow hairs and rip them out at the roots. My "threader", the one with the nice, chocolate-coloured eyes, was very... terse. She told me to "sit", told me to "relax" and then she told me to "stretch". When she asked me to stretch, I assumed she wanted me to do a full-body kind of thing, so I started to raise my arms up over my head and gave a little yawn. It's not like we had been at this for more than a minute, so I really didn't know what kind of wimp-ass, white girl she took me for.

     If you go... please note that the command "stretch" means to pull your forehead up and your eyelid down for optimal resistance while threading one's eyebrows. I felt like such a tool. Also, keep in mind that the "threader" is going to be about an inch from your face, so bring gum. Or, at least skip the sushi before you go. I was so worried about offending her with wasabi mouth, I had to hold my breath. It was $11 or something and I was quite happy with the results. Smooth, not too red (like waxing), fast and not as irritating as tweezers. 

     The bottom line is, I'm on my way to getting ready for spring. It IS, however, a work in progress. Tonight, while soaking in my tub of Epsom salts that smell of lotus flower and white tea (gag) I realized I should at least shave my legs. So, I took a disposable razor from before Christmas off the bath tub ledge and began to hack away at the inside of my calves. I didn't bother with my knees or the shins or the outsides of my calves... I couldn't see them while I was cross-legged in the tub. Out of sight, out of mind, I always say.