38 and Great!

     I'm a high maintenance princess for one month out of every year. Just for one month, basically from Mother's Day through to my birthday on the 23rd (and as many days after as I see fit), I expect EVERYONE to stop what they're doing and pay homage to the excellence that is me. The other months, I am pretty humble. That may be because no one actually agrees that the world revolves around me :(
     Or, at least, so I thought... It started last night (the 22nd). When I got home from work, I had plans to go to the local drive-in movie for an all-nighter; on long weekend Sundays, the drive-in shows four movies from sundown to sunrise. I even got a 6-pack of beer to take with me. However, by the time Rod was finished working on his hot rod and had a shower, it was already getting dark and I am already indignant that he would dare to spend time on anything other than me during my birthweek. At the movie, everyone had taken all the good spots so we were as far from the screen as you could get without using binoculars. Urgh.
    Many of the dark fighting scenes in Pirates of the Caribbean were indistinguishable. I found myself asking Rodney, "Who was that? With the sword?" or "What was he grabbing for?" or "Who's fighting who? Is that Barbossa or Black Beard?" I also remarked on how much better it would be in 3D. Then, I wanted to get out and break some headlights, taillights and truck cab roof lights. Jeesh, I really need to write a courtesy manual for newbies to the drive-in.
     Honestly, I was a real party pooper. The beer wasn't helping either. I wasn't feeing anything after two bottles. Just the need to pee. The last time I went to the canteen/washrooms, I offered to help scoop some unidentified horror off the floor with the maintenance staff (Holla! Tammy and Kelly!) So, the next time I just popped a squat in the back field near the fence line.
     Ater the movie was over, I wanted to take advantage of our "alone time" and get some lovin' in the back of the Kia. This proved frustrating at best. I'm certainly not a prude and I have no problem with public nudity, but the idea of having random headlights shining on my husband's bare ass did not put me in the mood. Plus, I didn't want him to touch me with anything that had been near a public restroom. In the end, we got into a workable position with my head hanging off the folded-down seats and his feet pushing against the back window, knees bent. However, this caused him to get a Charlie Horse in his right calf. The whole thing was a nightmare and the worst two minutes of my life.
     I was disappointed and unsatisfied. What a complete waste of an evening. I decided I was just going home to bed, so that I could get up and go for a coffee at Timmy's before work. Unfortunately, Rod had made plans with his buddy, Phil, to go for coffee... ON MY BIRTHDAY! WTF?! It was the final straw for me. I was completey pissed. Went for breakfast with my dad and step-mom. Got a lovely card, a cool outdoor turtle lamp, and some spending money, plus homemade slippers and more spending money from mom.
     Rod was spending the morning wiring the lights on his hot rod, so I thought I'd spend the afternoon shopping in Belleville. Got in the car, rocked out to "Rolling in the Deep" by Adele and "Rock me Gently" by Andy Kim, started to feel a little better about my life... then I noticed how quiet it was on Bell Boulevard. Hmmmmm, looks like the mall is closed on the May Twofour Monday... How odd? Surely, Walmart is not closed! By the Jesus... even Walmart is closed! I parked the car and just started bawling. Yet another complete waste of time. Drove back home in the pouring rain. On the way, Rodney texted me, "Holy shit! It's really coming down!" I replied, "That's my soul... condensating."
     When I walked in the door, I went straight to bed. That's the only thing you can do when your day is taking a shit... Take a nap and wait for the planets to realign. However, my cell phone is linked to my facebook account. So, every time someone wished me a "Happy Birthday!", my phone would vibrate. I have about 300 friends, therefore, I got no sleep. And, I didn't want to turn off the phone just in case I missed something important.
     I decided I would just go to work and be as miserable with all the bastards at the restaurant as the universe was being to me. Total sour grapes attitude. I unloaded my tragic tale to Amanda, who basically ignored me... and then returned from the walk-in fridge with a chocolate cake and 3 lit candles singing happy birthday.
     Finally! Some recognition! Someone who took time from her busy day to say, "Dammit, Sherla! You ARE someone special! And, you deserve some chocolate AND a little birthday song!" I would have cried, but I spent all my tears in the parking lot at Walmart.
     Two hours later, I was taking extra napkins to Table 3, when I saw my friends Janet and Jenna carrying what looked suspiciously like a plate of cupcakes up the steps to my work. I was standing at Table 3 with the napkins in hand when I exclaimed, "Oh My God!" I think the poor woman at the table thought I was having a seizure. She almost jumped out of the booth to perform CPR or some shit. Next thing I know, another rendition of Happy Birthday comes parading through the door with Janet, Jenna, Jordian, Justin, Ryan and Heather. This was awesome! I was getting recognition AND making a public spectacle of myself! <3 <3 <3
     At 8:30 p.m., I got a beautiful vegatarian dinner prepared by my daughter, complete with a detailed menu of the repast.
A blooming onion, "Because of that time we had one at Coach's and loved it". That's where I started to cry again.
Grilled aubergine with olive oil and salish, "How the hell did you want me to fry the eggplant?"
Shut Up And Eat The Stuffed Tomato, "Don't give a fuck whether you want it or not - I had something like it in Greece."
And, Duh! Birthday Cake for dessert, "Mostly cause Dad wanted it,"
"Happy Birthday and shit," she said
     That's my girl. At moments like these, I could not be more proud.

     Then, there's the infamous birthday card from my son. Every year, I get something creative from him. This time, he spent hours drawing a picture of his World of Warcraft character. He also consulted with masses of anti-social, delinquent gamers via World of Warcraft trade chat to find out what words of wisdom he could impart in celebration of his mother's birthday. The results are as follows:
"I'm glad you're pro-life"
"Good job last night"
"Dad needs a blowie"
and "When I'm with my GF, I think of you"
The list goes on and on...
     So, I have received love and best wishes (and pornographic suggestions) from my facebook friends, my family, my co-workers, my beloved children and even complete strangers who probably have criminal records and definitely have social phobias. It is a good day.

They don't make Gramma's like they used to

     I'm sooooo tired. A word of advice to anyone with a teenager taking a Parenting class - "Don't let them bring home that godforsaken robotic baby."
     When Austin came home with a note from the school to say he would be participating in the "real" baby experience, I was excited. I wouldn't say I am eager to become a Grandmother, but I anticipate being very happy about that joyous news... assuming it doesn't come until my own children have moved out, graduated post-secondary and got a job. After that, I expect I will feel elated in the same way I did when I found out Austin would be bringing home a doll that cries, drinks, poops and burps.
     The first weekend he brought home "Garrosh Hellscream", named after the Warchief of The Horde on the popular online game, World of Warcraft. Unfortunately, Garrosh never even started to cry or eat or poop. He was a dud baby.
     A few weeks later, Swifty arrived. I'm not sure where that name comes from. It turned out to be appropriate because AS SOON as he finished a bottle, Swifty would immediately produce a dirty diaper.
     Just for some background on this assignment, the local highschool parenting program has these robotic, life-like dolls (worth about $1000 each) that they send home with a teenager for the weekend to experience what parenting might really be like. At 3 p.m., the doll activates and the student is required to use a magnetic wristband to respond to the baby. Basically, it's like scanning the baby's back in a grocery store except you use your wrist. This prevents mom and dad from babysitting all weekend; no wristband, no ability to take care of baby.
     After they scan, the baby proceeds to cry in a specific manner to indicate whether they need feeding, changing or burping. Sometimes - and this is the real clincher - the baby is just fussy and cries no matter what you do. Depending on the circumstance, you use a magnetic baby bottle to feed it, a magnetic diaper to change it, or pat it's back to burp it.
     Now, I had been warned that this would be the worst weekend of my life. I had heard stories of the student's parents putting the pretend baby in the trunk of the car overnight so as not to hear the crying. I had heard of other kids breaking the necks of these babies on purpose to ensure a failing grade. I had even heard of totally family meltdowns as a result of these inconsolable little machines. I didn't believe it. But, I believe it now.
     The first day was a cinch. If nothing else, Austin is a quick learner and an efficient caretaker. He had a system whereby he would keep Swifty's arms and legs up in the air while sitting in his little carseat (that comes complete with safety straps,  I might add) to expediate diaper changes and provide "hands-free" bottle feeding.
     I was quite smitten with little Swifty. He sounded just like a real baby when he was drinking that bottle. You know how babies are. They sound like they haven't had a meal in days and they're gulping back the milk like it's a cold beer and last call at The Regal Beagle. <<sigh>> It took me back to a time when my own two teenagers were just babies and not the disrespectful freeloaders they've become.
     With a smile on my face and a song in my heart, I would come home from work or back from the grocery store and the first thing I would do is check on my little Swifty.
     I found it most satisfying that the greatest demand Swifty had for Austin was food. On the first night, he would cry for food about once every two hours and would drink his bottle for about 10 minutes each time. Austin has a similar appetite and is constantly saying, "Mom, I'm hungry." Now when I say "constantly", what I mean is just that. If he is awake, he's hungry. I have made a roast chicken and a box of Lucky Charms for this child.... as an after school snack. Teenaged boys are cheaper to house than to feed, trust me.
     Anyway, I enjoyed feeding times with Swifty. Austin would scan his back and hand the baby over to me. I was not permitted to remove him from his car seat because Austin was afraid I wasn't holding Swifty's neck properly. I would proceed to rock and feed him until he made the cutest little gurgle, indicating he was satisfied. He was soooo sweet. My cat was not impressed with Swifty. He sniffed at the doll disgustedly and probably would have pissed on him if anyone's back had been turned.
     Even in the middle of the night on Friday, I never heard much from Austin and Swifty except for the initial cooing, the scanning beep and the eventual satisfied gurgle. I did have a dream that I broke the doll's neck accidentally. In the dream, I was picking Swifty up from his car seat when I heard a snap and I looked down. There, in my hand, was a gear shaft with yellow grease on it that had popped out from the back of his head. I think I tossed and turned for the rest of the night trying to find a way to put Swifty back together again.
     Saturday night was a little different. After having a few beers to celebrate my nephew's 40th birthday, I woke up to full out screams around 3 a.m. from Austin's room. Swifty was crying and Austin was sound asleep. I had to shake the hell out of him to "wake up and get the damn baby". It only happened once though. I was disgruntled about losing sleep, but I couldn't be angry with my darling grandchild. This prompted another dream in which we had to prepare magnetic baby cereal for Swifty in order to keep him satisfied for longer periods of time. The cereal was kind of green and Swifty doesn't swallow, but we just kept shovelling it over his face hoping to stop the screams.
     I worked on Sunday from 7:30 a.m. until 8:30 p.m. and was exhausted when I got home. All I wanted was a little quality time with my grandson and a nice hot bath after an episode of Game of Thrones. I didn't even read a chapter of my books before falling asleep. Round about 2 a.m., all hell broke lose. Swifty started to cry and no one could find his bottle. He cried, he drank, he shit and he burped. An hour later, Swifty is up and crying again. Austin is tearing all the sheets off of his bed looking for something when I come in the room. His sister is helping him look for something too. I said, "What are you looking for?" But, Austin can't answer me because he's panicked almost to the point of hyperventilating. I can clearly see the magnetic bottle and the magnetic diaper beside the carseat. So I ask again, this time with more authority, "What are you looking for?!" Meanwhile, Swifty is screaming. To which Alex yells at me, "He can't describe it! Obviously! Stop asking him!" I tried to explain that Austin clearly had a case of "baby brain" because there was NOTHING missing. Alex stomped back to her room and shut the door. Austin came to his senses and managed to calm Swifty with a diaper change after 5 more minutes of inhuman screeching.
     At 4 a.m., I wake up to more screams that have been going on for about 5 minutes at least. I'm pretty sure I can hear Austin crying, too. As I jump out of bed, I scream, "Give me that goddamn thing! I'll rip its fucking head off myself!" Alex is already in Austin's room and she blocks the door so I can't take the machine and MAKE it shut up with my bare hands. Austin is frantically rocking Swifty back and forth while he has a 20 minute "fussy" time. I bury my head under my pillows and pretend that this is all just another bad dream.
     At 5 a.m., Swifty is crying again. I walk into Austin's room, grab the doll from his carseat (careful of his damned neck), grab Austin's wrist and scan the baby's back. At this point, I've decided I will sleep after Swifty has returned to a nice box in the closet at the highschool. I change his shitty ass, but I can tell there's more to come because he's not doing that peaceful, rhythmic breathing that he does when he's not about to get all "Old Testament" and start raining fire or calling on locusts. Sure enough, we do another scan and he drinks a bottle for 15 minutes while I watch Totally Spies on Teletoon. Still no rhythmic breathing. Scan again. This time, it's patting and rocking until he burps 10 minutes later.

     Later that day (because we slept in after Swifty "timed out" at 6 a.m.) I drove Austin to school. I said, "If you EVER think about not using a condom, I want you to think back to this morning and the hell that was Swifty Pringle."

Insidious Spoiler Alert Spoiled

I have been waiting to see Insidious since it came out in the theatre. I love a good scary movie to make my skin crawl and make me jump. I’ve been nervous to see it alone, but it couldn’t be helped. My friends don’t share my creepy cravings and I have used up my date night with Big Rod going to see Hannah (which was a disappointment, btw).

So, I put on my big girl panties and headed for Belleville. There were only a handful of people in Theatre 8. The one time that I would have really liked to have some company, everyone decides to stay home and leave me alone to put my feet up. That’s Murphy’s Law of big screen entertainment, right? If people can irritate the shit out of you, they will.

The first thing I noticed about the movie was the impressive use of silence. A good scary movie maker knows the most frightening noise is dead silence and the creepiest monsters are the ones you can’t really see. My first impression was good right from the credits; Lots of black and white scenes with shadowy figures behind curtained windows, ominous grandfather clocks and long hallways. To really put me in the mood, there was some blood curdling violin music similar to something from the original Psycho. I’m certainly no expert on the genre, but I know what I like... and there was a big grin on my face as I shoved handfuls of buttery popcorn into my face.

As the plot thickened, the digital sound system worked its magic. When Dalton first encountered the monster in the attic, there was a sound like cracking eggs and clicking fingernails. Still no visual though; typical of the Paranormal Activity films. It wasn’t long into the movie when I heard nefarious whispering over the baby monitor and lots of thumps in the dark that seemed to come from beside me, behind me and even underneath me. The next thing I know, the baby is crying and, when the mother runs into the nursery, there’s a veiled figure looming over the crib. I wasn’t expecting it, of course, and it made me jump and swear out loud.

At this point I worried that my child-size Coke and the surprise spooks might contribute to me peeing in my big girl panties. I started to watch most of the scenes through my fingers.

At 7:15 p.m. I was starting to get really spooked. All the creepers had made their appearance: the early 20^th century boy in short pants, the 50s plastic family with the bright red lipstick and Raggedy Ann eyes, the black leather-wearing bouncer with disfigured face...  not to mention the Freddy Krueger/Darth Maul wannabe demon. My skin was starting to hurt from the constant chicken skin.

And, the worst was yet to come. In an attempt to save his Dalton, the father tries astral projection to travel through ghostly dimensions. They were trapped in the nothingness of endless black when I decided to leave the theatre. That’s right. I am a chicken shit. The way I saw it, none of the Saw/Paranormal Activity movies have happy endings and, at this point in the film, I could fool myself into believing the dad returns to his body and the boy comes out of his coma and everyone wins. Besides that, I was losing precious daylight hours and there was NO WAY I was driving home in the dark by myself after this movie.

Farting at the table - yes or no? NKOTB fan - yes or no?

     So, today sucked, quite honestly. I woke up at 5 a.m. because I was having a waitressing nightmare. This is a recurring dream in which the restaurant suddenly gets swamped with patrons. I'm all by myself trying to take everyone's orders, but they keep switching seats or leaving because they have been waiting too long. The menu keeps changing, so I can't get the orders straight. And, when I finally get an opportunity to get someone a beverage, I can't find the Pepsi because it's being kept in a secret compartment in the barber shop next door. ARGH! I wake up in a cold sweat, heart racing and ready to stab a chopstick in my jugular.
     Then, when I actually go in to work at noon, I am serving a bus tour of 46 people. So, my dream was actually a premonition of how the day would go. Most of the old bastards were pretty nice, but there's always that oooone table that has to ruin my life. One fellow flagged me down to insist that I had not taken his drink order, to which I replied, "Really? I was sure I had been to all of the tables." Sure enough, he clearly had a cup of coffee in front of him. What he meant to say was, he could really use a pint of beer and my substandard server skills were preventing him from getting his 1 o'clock buzz on. I had just taken his drink order when the food was ready. This means I spent the next few minutes taking plates three at a time from the kitchen to 46 hungry bus riders. (Grab the eveing paper and sit down in your chair, Grab yourself a toupee cause you're osing your hair - The Guess Who).
     When I set down a plate of quiche and salad in front of the old fart (quite winded from running back and forth and definitely breaking a sweat), he says, "Where's my drink?"
     I was flummoxed and started to stutter. "I can't... I didn't... Uh.. Um... Er...... <sigh>. I will be right back, sir." But, before I could turn around, the woman across the table from him asked, "Could I have a dinner roll with some butter, please?" I just stared at her, red-faced and panting. "He has a starch with his meal," she explained, referring to the crust of the quiche. She was having the chicken salad. "I need to have a starch!"
     This would not normally be a big deal, however, if I had the foresight to predict everyone would want a dinner roll, I would have brought them all out BEFORE the meal. Now, things were going to get messy. I returned to the table with a dinner roll and some butter on a plate. Of course, now the other five people at the table want to know why I didn't bring dinner rolls to them as well. Back to the kitchen for five more dinner rolls and more butter. No sooner did I set that mother fucking basket of buns on the table when that mother fucking drunk tank says to me, "Did you forget my beer?"
     Now, this little nightmare situation is not as easy as it sounds. It is not just a matter of 10 steps to the kitchen and back to the table. Our big groups sit in the "FAR" verandah, as opposed to the "NEAR" verandah. We call it the "FAR" verhandah because it is so goddamn far from anything that you might need to serve people properly. Like bread, butter and beer. To add insult to injury, as I turned to walk away, a man at the next table asked me when his group might be getting their dinner rolls. FML.
     All I wanted to do was go home and play the Zumba game for my Xbox 360 Kinect. At 3:30 p.m., I walked in the door and took off my work stuff (down to my lucky orange underwear) with the intention of putting on my yoga pants, my tight black bra and my tank top for a serious workout. I NEED that black bra for a workout. It's the only thing that keeps my knockers from flopping around and causing serious injury during my serious exercise. I couldn't find that sonofabitch anywhere!
     I was so frustrated, I decided I wasn't putting on a stitch of clothing until I found that bra. But, I clearly had to clean my house before it would turn up. I started with the dishes, cleaning off the counter, and throwing in some laundry, all the while my tits are swinging around and knocking into each other. I vacuumed, sorted laundry and even made my bed. It was quarter of five before I found my bra... on the door knob of the bathroom where I keep all of my bras. I just assumed that I hadn't put it away.
     The Zumba for Kinect was too hard for me. It was too fast and not really very fun. I prefer the Kinect Adventures or Biggest Loser.
    After supper, I thought about trying to salvage what was left of my day with popcorn and a movie. I would really like to see Insidious. But, my niece Facebooked me to invite me out to play cards at her house, which sounded like more fun. For an example of how to play Pass the Ace, check out a previous blog http://sherlas-life.blogspot.com/2010/12/im-dreamin-of-redneck-christmas.html .
    As I was driving out to McKinley Crossroad, there was a bright rainbow that looked like it might end right over Angie's house with a pot of gold. This was the sign I had been looking for and I knew then that my day was going to get a lot better. I won the first two hands of cards, lost one, and won a third. We had a little bit of dinner, including a lovely broccoli salad with nuts and berries and some nachos with the ground beef picked off (Thanks, Ang!). The conversation was great - I found out all the latest news, had my own scoops to dish about, and reminisced about things I haven't thought about in 15 years or more! Even talked about some things I wish I didn't know, like the existence of a photograph of my nephew with a mangina (if you don't know what that is, Google it).
     Next thing you know, one of the other ladies lets rip a big fart. Now, I'm all for passing gas as long as it doesn't gag your neighbour. And, since we were finished eating, I was kind of hoping I could work up some flatulence of my own for a little contest between the ladies. My bowels were a no-show though.
     Speaking of my bowels, New Kids on the Block are performing in Ottawa again this June. My other niece has been a fan of Joey, Johnny... Tommy, Dick and Harry ever since they were still singing soprano, so she's going again. Somehow (I missed the segue), the topic switched from an innocent concert viewing to whether or not NKOTB fans suck dick. Apparently, if you are a fan of the boys with "The Right Stuff" you DO NOT perform fellatio. This statistic could easily become a euphesmism for cocksuckers. For example, you might say, "My wife never liked New Kids on the Block and now, all of a sudden, they're her favourite band!" (That means, she used to suck it, but she doesn't anymore). lol.
     This is where the conversation got really weird. Amie says to another lady at the table, "You should tell Sherla about your dog."
     To which I respond, "Why? Does your dog suck it's own dick? Because I know someone who has a dog that does that." I really do. And, apparently, he isn't just cleaning himself. I haven't seen him in action, but I've heard eye witness accounts.
     No word of a lie, the lady beside me says, "Is it a Jack Russell Terrier?" As though this is common practice for the breed.
     "As a matter of fact, I think it is!"
     Turns out, Jack Russells are NOT New Kids fans.

My body too County.licious for ya, babe.

     Oh, County.licious. The best part of spring and fall in Prince Edward County, especially when the winter temperatures are so determined to stick around.
     I didn't think I was going to get the opportunity to try the new menus this year because I am working all the time AND I shouldn't be spending $35 on a three-course prix fixe meal. But, I don't always do what I'm supposed to, particularly with my money, which is why I'm in this predicament in the first place. My best excuse is that Janet had been stuck in her house with four kids and a dog for a whole week all by herself
and she wanted to go. How could I say "no" to her?
     Normally, we like to try something new when we go out. I haven't been to Angeline's since a ninth grade, french class field trip, but the new chef there is Michael Potters, former owner of Harvest, which is where we went last year. I would also like to try East and Main Bistro or The Devonshire Inn in Wellington. They all have some interesting things to try, such as, nut and mushroom meatloaf in phyllo pastry or rabbit civet in red wine.
     If you go, check out the menus at http://www.countylicious.ca/ . It seems the popular foods this year are beets, israeli couscous and pork. I don't know who the hell Blaine Way is, but he's selling a lot of pigs to local restaurants.
     Strangely enough, we settled for dinner at Amelia's Garden - the restaurant where I work during the day on the resort where Janet works. This decision could go either way; we get special treatment for being employees or we get "special" treatment for being employees... in the negative sense. It ended up being a little of both, I think.
     So, in order to get ready for my date with Janet and Danielle, I decided to get all spiffy. I showered and put some fancy, silk protein mousse in my hair for which my daughter probably spends $20 a bottle. I tried to blow dry my hair with some success, but it tends to make my hair more frizzy than normal. So, I decided to curl it. I have less patience for curling my hair than I have for blowing it dry, which means I do a couple of ringlets on boths sides of my face and leave the rest. My daughter, Alex, was disgusted with my attempts at preening. She used a strightening iron to curl the rest of my head. Don't ask me how to do this. It looked like she was using a pair of Fiskars scissors to curl the ribbons on a birthday present. It worked anyway. My hair was all Shirley Temple. Then, she sprayed it all over with half a can of extra hold hair spray that my son uses for his faux hawk and proceeded to "scrunch" it up with her fingers.
    Every once in a while, we all have a little bit of OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder), right? Some people are obsessed with a certain number, others like to keep things lined up, others have to do things in a particular order. Apparently, I have to be able to run my fingers through my hair. This is not possible when there is half a can of extra hold hair spray on your hair. I had a little bit of a panic attack when this was brought to my attention. But, I had to (eventually) admit I looked pretty good.
     Initially, I put on my dark wash, skinny jeans with my red, Christmas shirt and a pair of high wedged sandals. In my opinion, a heavy set woman does not wear this outfit well. It was very "white trash" and was more suited to having tickets to Maury Povich. But, Alex insisted that my skinny jeans are the best pants I have and I value her opinion. I switched to my pink, sleeveless shirt... I don't know how to describe these things. It's pinkish and flowy and shows a lot of cleavage. I covered it with a black cardigan to make me less trashy. What about shoes? I have all kinds of shoes, but no flats! Who doesn't own a nice pair of flats? I absolutely need to rectify this situation ASAP! In the meantime, I put on my black and white Pumas. Now, I feel this was dressing down when I was clearly trying to dress up. Alex insisted that all the work on my hair, my face, and my jeans could only be accentuated by wearing running shoes. I still believe she was totally messing with me.
     At least Janet thought I looked hot. We picked up Danielle and headed out for our reservation. I wanted to be extra high maintenance on this special night and it was my intention to call ahead to make sure they had a vegan alternative on the menu, just for shits and giggles. I also wanted to make sure we had a window seat far away from any of the filthy plants and a server that wasn't going to get on my nerves with a patronizing attitude or over-exuberant personality. Hmmm. I guess I am high manitenance.
     I had the beet salad. It was served with an herbed cheese and the tiny slices of really dry baguette toasts. I neary broke my incisors trying to get through that toast, but the beets were good. Janet had the smoked salmon and feta cheese tart with smoked pineapple, which she loved and I agree the pineapple was tasty. Danielle went for the apple cider and old cheddar soup, which is very popular at lunch.
     For the entree, I ordered the Arctic char with tomato and asiago risotto. Both were incredibly good, but in hindsight, I'm pretty sure I got the pickerel and not the char. It was supposed to be porcini crusted and topped with brie, swiss and braised leeks. There was nothing but breadcrumbs on my fish. It was good anyway. Janet and Danille both got the surf and turf beef with sashimi grade tuna steak and crab cake. The crab cake had noodles in it. I didn't try it, but Janet liked it. They both loved the steak (which they could cut with a butter knife, btw). In fact, Janet wanted to take it home and make love to it. In the middle of Amelia's Garden fine dining restaurant, I pretended I was at home rubbing steak over my musn't-touch (thanks for that word, Heather) and calling it's name. Even the idea of touching meat made me want to hurl. Janet, however, fantasized about making her own "gravy".
     Among our other fine dinner conversations, Danielle brought up the very terrible Gayle King Show on the new O Network. I haven't seen it. In related news, Danielle said, the tabloids started rumours in 2006 that Gayle is Oprah's lesbian lover because they shared a tent while camping somewhere. To which I replied, "Well, that makes me a lesbian, too." Not to be outdone, Janet claims she is a "triple lesbian" because she shared a tent with three women. Overachiever.

Someday we'll find it - The Rainbow Connection. The lovers, the dreamers and me - Kermit

     April showers bring more than May flowers... they reveal all the dog shit on your lawn from the last 6 months. So, one of my other jobs that I've tried in the last 5 years is a business I call "Call of Doody". I started it in the spring of 2009 and did quite a few spring clean-ups, but the idea didn't really take off locally. After three years of part time poop scooping, I can tell you Great Danes have the biggest and Rottweilers have the worst smell. Also, please don't let your dogs have anything from the Easter dinner table.
     My best client is a gentleman in Belleville who calls me every spring to clean his little yard of the excrement from his little, scruffy dog. It takes me about half an hour and this man always gives me twice my asking price. Today, he gave me almost three times my asking price and I could almost cry at the generosity of some people. Before I had a chance to open the envelope he gave me as payment, I took the time to ask him about his winter. Now, I haven't said more than a few words of small talk with this fellow in the last 3 years, but I pegged him for an interesting sort and I was curious about his life. Within seconds, he invited me in to see his house.
     I know what you're thinking, but this is not a horror flick. However, a scene from the movie "Faster" did replay in my mind for a split second as I was taking off my boots at the front door. If you haven't seen it, The Rock (Dwayne Johnson) plays an ex-con who is looking for revenge. One of the men he kills is a frail, little, old man who makes snuff films with young girls by luring them into his house and drugging them with Kool-aid. I pity the fool who feels the need to drug an almost 40, pertnear 200 pound woman with a glass of juice when there are hundreds of scantily clad, 20-somethings obliviously staggering down Oxford Street in London, Ontario on any given Saturday night. I seriously fear for the lives of those silly girls (even if I was one back in tha' day <<sigh>>).
     Back in the house, I am getting the Royal tour. The place is like a show room or a museum with displays of his father-in-law's art. This man, who had fought in the First World War, was a painter (he mostly did flowers - like pansies), a wood carver (he had at least a hundred different bird species on display) and a furniture designer (he built an 8-piece bedroom suite for his daughter about 70 years ago).
     My client, let's call him "Bob", also collects old clocks. He had a grandfather clock on display that he said was over 100 years old and still kept good time. His sitting room, where he used to enjoy coffee every morning at 10 a.m.with his wife (now in a nursing home with Alzheimer's), had 18 clocks ticking away. This would normally drive me insane, but I found it nostalgic and even serene as I shared stories of Bob's life. He likes gardening, he likes to keep the house really warm (even if it costs him a fortune in electric heat) and he remembers going on a field trip to Deerborn, Michigan with 130 sixth grade students once.

     What I find so interesting about how I spent my morning is how everyone really does have a story. Sometimes stories, like the ones I write for this blog, are not always nail-biting, laugh-out-loud, future screenplays. But, they all have a genuine person behind them and I'm glad I took the time out of my "busy" life to make a connection with someone. Notwithstanding the fact that he gave me $80 (!) to pick up his dog's poop. And, regardless of whether or not I could have been abducted and killed.
     After my visit, I went to the mall... obvsly. I had to pick up some things at the Bulk Barn, had to get some sushi for lunch and had to get my husband the new "Nascar 2011" for Xbox 360. While I was at the game store, I picked up "Country Dance" for Wii. That may be what I'm doing tonight after work. I'll let you know how it goes.

The Importance of Lending a Hand

     It is really important to help out wherever and whenever you can. Call it "karma" or "the golden rule" or "what goes around comes around" - I believe every person has a connection to all of the other living things on the planet and, in my opinion, helping others is just another way of helping yourself.
     This week, I declared it my personal goal to revisit the words of my old Brownie motto and to "Lend a Hand"... even though I hated Brownies. So, hold up your right hand and extend your pointer and midde fingers. Ah ah ah... use BOTH fingers! And, repeat after me.

I promise to do my best, to do my duty to God,
the queen and my country, to help other people every day.

     Very good. So, first things first. Japan. I don't watch the news about all the devastation caused from the tsunami because it will hurt my heart. But, I do know they need cash. Unfortunately, cash is something I don't have because I spent it all on a $35 face massage. Urgh! But, I did attend the Karaoke Kitchen Party at Books & Co. last Thursday. They were taking donations at the door for the Red Cross and there were all kinds of other ways to donate.

My origami crane as a tapas for my Sandbanks wine

     Kudos to the organizers because I haven't seen that many interesting things to do at a bookstore since the midnight release of the fifth Harry Potter book at a Chapters in London. There were matcha-flavoured marshmallows for sale, face-painting for the kids, origami cranes to make, wine sampling, face sketchers, arts and crafts demonstrations, local entertainment, a silent auction, photographers.... the list goes on and on. I was particlarly impressed with a young man named Bradley Higgins, who designs and creates his own jewelry.
     No word yet on how much money was raised, but I think they did quite well based on the turnout. Although I dropped a couple of bucks at the event, I didn't feel I had filled my quota for good deeds, so I offered to help my baby daddy's parents move on Saturday.
     I bet he just loooooves that I call him my "baby daddy", which is all the more reason for me to continue to do so. There is currently no love lost between Jeff and I, but I frequently waffle back and forth between liking him, tolerating him and downright hating his guts. Today, I am somewhere between cursing the ground he walks on and accepting him for the jackass he is. That's only because we haven't spoken since last summer (via text so I didn't have to see his nasty face). Prior to our last big disagreement, I spent several Christmas days with him and his family (including the time we spent putting up lights on the eavestroughs - which baffled his neighbours), I attended his wedding, I went on vacation with his wife and I rolled half-naked down his neighbour's snow-covered slide in February at his hot tub birthday party. It makes me a little sad that we can't be friends anymore, but I was still glad I didn't have to see the motherfucker this weekend. He was golfing in Florida.
     Anyway, I picked up my mother-in-law at 6 a.m. on Saturday morning so I could take her to visit friends in London for the night. I HATE 6 a.m., just so we're clear. We picked up coffee at Timmy's and made good time to London, which is about 4 hours (and $40 worth of gas) away. My daughter slept in the back seat for most of the ride. Big Reet and I listened to Crooked Wood (http://www.crookedwood.ca/) to keep me awake. Tim Finnegan's Wake makes me laugh every time I hear it.
     By the time we got to the house at 10 a.m., gas prices rose to $1.29/litre (!) and Brian's two nephews already had most of the big stuff in the U-haul. All that was left to do was pack up more stuff in boxes and keep piling them into the other vehicles. I was probably more of a distraction to the efforts than anything because I managed to corner Dana (Jeff's stepmom) at the new house and harrass her with all my child-rearing woes for about an hour. So, here's the secret to raising your teenagers - you can't raise them aymore. Once they hit 18, they have to make their own decisions and you have to let them go. Even if that means that they don't live out the dreams you didn't get to fulfill (like going to University and becoming "successful"). You just have to love them, which doesn't always mean picking up their messes for them either. Just love them and let the chips fall where they may. And, yes, people are going to say "you should have..." or "what if..." and "Oh, what a shame...". Well, too fucking bad. You do the best you can with what you have and, after that, you deal with the consequences.
     In the meantime, your children (and anybody, really) will treat you like shit because they can. My daughter and I play this game of "I-can-hurt-you-more" and there is never a victory. She says I am unbearably irritating and I say she's a high-maintenance princess with no regard for other people's feelings. It gets quite nasty. It is now (according to Dana) my job to stop the vicious cycle, which means biting my tongue and mentally pushing her away so she is free to grow up without completely alienating her... or binding and gagging her in the back of a U-haul van and dropping her in a remote area where they speak only Spanish.
     So, the moral of the story is, when you help people move, you get invaluable life lessons and advice. "What goes around, comes around..."
     In other news, I went to Wonder Sushi on Highbury Avenue in London at the suggestion of my co-worker, Lisa. They were just getting ready to close for the afternoon, but we put in a quick order of Salmon sushi, edamame, vegetable tempura, fried tofu, salad, miso soup and grilled eggplant. I went to wash my hands and who did I see on the way back from the washroom? My co-worker, Lisa, from Picton. What are the odds of that?! I'm still shocked, especially since both of us were off on a Saturday... but that's another story and I can't wait to hear the repercussions of it at work tonight. :@
     Before the server took our order to the kitchen, she told us we did not order enough food. In spite of my better judgement, she encouraged us to get two sushi rolls, two hand rolls, 4 more fried tofu, vegetable udon and 4 spring rolls.
     Now, at the risk of being stereotypical, I cannot eat like an Asian. So, her idea of "enough food" and my idea are going to be very different. I've seen my boss, George, eat a large mixing bowl portion of fried veggies with a side of two cups of boiled peanuts and a bucket of Chinese fruits for dessert. We watched the staff at Wonder Sushi enjoy a meal of what looked like 3 roasted ducks and countless other plates filling the entire table, which they devoured in less time than I took to figure out how to wrap the udon noodles around my chopsticks. I did not make it through all of the food we ordered and I was pretty sure I was going to blow chunks in the parking lot.
     I kept everything down and even sucked back a cake pop from Starbucks. That afternoon, I offered to watch my nephew while Sarah went to work, in keeping with the "lend a hand" theme of the weekend. I turned on Mario Brothers Galaxy 2 (which he calls The Walking Game... he's soooooo cute) and we proceeded to get all the bad guys and save Yoshi. There is one part of the game where you have to destroy a little evil wizard who repeatedly shoots mean mushrooms at you. It was at this point that my darling, innocent Buddha Boy, whose birth I witnessed some 3 years ago, started to tell me how the mushrooms were "a pain in the ass".
     "Those guys are a pain in my ass," he repeated over and over - emphasis always on the word ass. "They're a real pain in the aaaaasss."
     Well, I got to laughing so hard I thought I'd pee. Sara says it's Dana's fault because she is always saying that when she plays the game. Unfortunately, I have added to the problem because every time I got to a new level and the star shoots Yoshi and Mario ever further into the galaxy, I would exclaim, "Hooooly Shit!", which was (by the way) my daughter's first real sentence back in 1993.    

A little goddess in the outfit Alexis brought back from Greece