Downloading Mom for Easter

     We celebrate six things every year at our house - Spring, Summer, Fall, Halloween, Winter and birthdays. Those are the things that are important to me.


Me and Heather
Celebrating St. Patrick's Day
...just for work

     Not a big fan of New Year's. If I need an excuse to drink an entire bottle of champagne and kiss somebody at midnight, it will be because it is Tuesday and someone gave me a bottle of champagne. Valentine's Day? Please. Every day is Valentine's Day when you're married to your true love. Of course, it helps if he likes to eat at the Y. ;) I'm not Irish. St. Patrick drove the "snakes" out of Ireland. That's not a nice thing to do to snakes. Canada Day means fireworks and barbecues. Yet another tradition we have stolen from our neighbours to the south and tried to pass off as our own. Just like Thanksgiving.
     Yeah, I'm a party pooper. When the kids were younger, I used to celebrate everything. I would research all the world's holidays - Chinese New Year, Chanukah, Ramadan - just to have an excuse to do something special. But, now that my kids are grown, I don't feel so much like celebrating. I just miss them.
     To celebrate spring this year, I decided on two things. First, I was going to use silk to dye my Easter eggs. I think I saw this crafty idea on Pinterest or somewhere. I bought about 8 silk ties at the local second-hand store MONTHS ago and was (surprisingly) able to find them tucked away in a box in the garage this morning.


Silk Dyed Easter Eggs

1. Cut squares of silk big enough to completely cover your eggs from ties, shorts, scarves.
2. Cut bigger squares from white linen (old pillow cases or sheets) so that you can wrap the individual eggs and tie them with a twist tie.
3. Wrap each raw egg with a silk square and then cover with a linen square and secure tightly with a twist tie.
4. Bowl enough water to cover the eggs in an oven safe glass or enamel pot. Add at least 3 Tbsp. of vinegar.
5. Pour the boiled water over the wrapped eggs in the glass/enamel pot. Put in the oven at 350 C for 20 minutes.
6. Let cool for 10 minutes and unwrap.

     I found my eggs were not as bright as I would have liked, but the designs were cool. My daughter suggested I needed more vinegar in the water.

     Speaking of my daughter, she lives four hours away! So, the second thing I decided to do to celebrate spring was a trans-provincial Treasure Hunt. I can't be there in person to hide some eggs, but I can get a little help from some people at The Covent Garden Market in London.
     I was originally inspired for this idea on an episode of Dragon's Den that featured a delightful chocolatier from the London area. Chocolate is not like pizza. You cannot call and have it delivered. The next natural step (in my mind) was to send the recipient on a quest. In this case, I could give Alexis directions via text to have her pick up her treasures.
     This re-creates the fun I used to have with the kids when they were young. I gave them little slips of paper with clues to take them to the next clue, and the next, until they found their stash of Easter chocolate. They never much cared about the chocolate. It was always about the hunt.
     Therefore, a one-stop treasure hunt for some truffles would not be enough. I decided to include some tea, from the Tea Haus, and a bouquet of flowers from Esther's Flowers and Gifts.
     All of the Tea Haus' loose leaf teas can be found on their website www.theteahaus.com. I chose a small bag of Gyokuru and a small bag of Star of China - both very cool teas that I can't wait to try. One call and $17 later by credit card and I had one treasure.


Easter Bouquet
From Esther's Flowers

     I presume I talked to Esther from Esther's Flowers next.You can find many of her arrangements online at www.evonasflowers.com. I didn't think she really understood what the hell I was doing. I'm sure the cut flower industry deals with mostly anniversaries, birthdays and funerals requiring deliveries. Not treasure hunts in which the recipient will come in with a secret password in order to receive their flowers.
     Finally, the piece de resistance - THE CHOCOLATE. I'm a little early for the traditional Easter celebrations, so the chocolatier and I decided on a sampler box of truffles with a rabbit-shaped lolly. I told him I wanted my daughter to say, "My name is Alex. Are you the Easter Bunny?" when she arrived for her treasure. But, I assumed she would be too embarrassed to say this. He took that info and ran with it. Seemed very eager to play along with my ruse and I love him for it :) Check out www.forratschocolates.ca
     She called me in the afternoon, ready for an adventure. But, not expecting to have to leave the house. "How the hell am I going to do a treasure hunt in your house from here?" I asked. When we hung up, my son-in-law would randomly giggle to himself and say things like, "Maybe she got you a puppy and it's sitting in a parking lot frozen to death because you were supposed to do this yesterday." Or, "Maybe your mom came to visit, and she's been sitting in a parking lot somewhere, freezing to death..." etc. Such a morbid little bastard. He's so cute.

    

 The Following took place via text:

 

 

On Google maps, find the

street with the EXPENSIVE

WORLD name. Turn south.

Then turn right on

street that should have

NEW in front of it.

Then turn right on the

street describing a LOFTY

ASS

Turn right again on RUE ROI

 

Okay, I get King Street (rue roi),

Talbot (lofty ass...tall butt),

and (new)York... But, what's

expensive world?

Rich Monde

Argh! Duh

So in the market! I'll

text you when I'm there

Make sure you park in

 the underground. It will

save you money.

Lol. Yes mom otherwise the

directions are false. What's

next?

Go up the King Street

stairs to the second floor.

Once you're on the second

floor, you will see the Tea

House door.

Haus? Lol

Haus, yes.

Fucking Swype

Go in and say, "My name

is Alex. Are you the

Easter bunny?"

 

To who?

The lay behind the counter

I guess

LADY! not LAY!

LMAO! hahaha

THANK YOU! WHAT'S NEXT?

Down stairs. You will

see a flower shop with

a girl's name. She

didn't really understand

 what I was doing. So

just tell her your name

is Alex.

This flower woman loves you!

I'm glad. I was worried she

thought I was fucked

How is the tea?

I had a Tim Horton's coffee,

which she was offended by,

so she gave me a free tea

coupon for later

Ugh. Oh well. I should have

 told you

Now find the collars made

FOR NASTY VERMIN near

market lane

Not collars. CHOCOLATES.

Fucking Swype

And tell them who I am?

Ask if he's the Easter

Bunny

He really played along :p

Oh Em Gee!!

That's it. I'll call you when

you get home

 

 

     When I called, she sounded just like the excited little girl I remember and it made my day. Unfortunately, the report on the Tea Haus was negative. When she asked if they had something for her, they initially said no. Eventually, another server realized who she was and said, "I do." Then, with disdain, "I guess your cup of tea will go really well with your Tim Horton's."

Star of China tea

 

     The flowers from Esther's were absolutely gorgeous. I was expecting some tulips and gerberas for $40. But, there were yellow and red roses, lilies, gerberas and carnations. Alex was very happy.

     Of course, just as I thought, Alex tried to get away with  saying, "Hi. Do you have anything for Alex?" from Forrats. She laughed at my description. FOR NASTY VERMIN.... aka FOR RATS. ("I knew right away what you meant. lol.")

     The chocolatier replied, "I miiiight have something for you, but WHOOOO are you looking for?"

My daugher and her boyfriend

     And, that is how I got my 20 year old daughter to ask a complete stranger if he was the Easter Bunny and laugh about it.



New Moon on Monday with Lily Allen and Cee Lo Green

     It's just one of those days, ya know? I woke up at 4 a.m. Wide awake and determined not to get out of bed because 4 a.m. is just ridiculous. The time change has messed me up, as usual. So, I dig deep down under my faux fur throw and my polyfil duvet and will myself to drift back to dreamland. The alarm woke me up three hours later at 7:30, which is really still 6:30 from my perspective. Daylight Savings Time is Bullspit!
     I get to work at 7:55 with puffy eyes and crazy bedhead. The kitchen opens at 8 a.m., but there's always that ooooooone gawdamn chipper couple, who like to "get up with the chickens" and have "breaky" ASAP. They were already making themselves to home in the dining room. I would call them assholes, but this particular couple is in regularly and I actually quite enjoy them. I just wasn't very happy to see them before the kitchen staff had even arrived. And, before I had made coffee or anything.
     Then I read the note. The evening shift left a little note to say that the water glasses had not been polished. To paraphrase, evening staff's shit does not stink, but day staff suck big donkey dicks. That's how I interpret it anyway.
     I have worked day shifts and night shifts, so I know both of us screw up, forget, get lazy, screw the pooch a little... whatever. Now, I wouldn't mind the occasional reprimand as long as you throw me a bone (for the dog I'm fucking, lol) every once in a while. How 'bout, "Hey, thanks for vacuuming underneath all of my tables on Saturday because I didn't have a chance to vacuum at all after my shift Friday night." Or, "I appreciate you folding all those napkins on Sunday afternoon and resetting our tables for us, because we were swamped and couldn't leave you any clean cutlery or folded napkins or stock any coffee cups for you. Sorry, if you had to do all that on top of all the other wonderful things you do :)" Anyway, to hell with co-workers. They suck sometimes, but I love the crazy bastards anyway. (I have to say that, some of them will read this. haha)
     It is Monday. We had a fairly busy weekend in the resturant. The food order doesn't come in until Tuesday. This means, we have a limited amount of food. Limited eggs means limited specials and limited pancakes. Fortunately, everyone decided to have the fresh fruit plate.
     As a side note: If you order a "fresh fruit" plate in winter, and are subsequently shocked to get a bowl of fruit cocktail with mostly melon, it is my humble opinion that you're an idiot. Fruit does not grow in Ontario in winter, so "fresh" is a subjective term in the food industry.
     You are also an idiot if you pay $12 for breakfast at a resort when you can get the same stuff at the diner down the road for half that price.
    To continue, I had two ladies come in today - along with six other tables of two. That's 14 people of you are keeping track. I feel I am on top of things. Everyone has menus. I'm working on getting coffee, water and orange juice for everyone. I also have to take a few minutes to explain the breakfast special with a big smile on my face.
     As a side note: If you order coffee, water AND orange juice with your breakfast, it is my humble opinion that you are a douchebag. Particularly, if you order all three things separately so that the server has to make three different trips to your table. Also, you are too thirsty and you have diabetes. And, you will pee your pants.
     Anyway, these two ladies (who I would call regulars) were waiting for a third friend, who arrived a few minutes later. I was just putting an order for another table in to the computer, when I hear the third lady ask why they don't have coffee yet. The other ladies whisper (loudly enough that I can hear them only a few feet away) that the waitress hasn't returned to the table since she brought menus. I look over to let them know I can hear them and, as I am walking past their table, the third lady says with all the self-righteous indignance that her blue hair can produce, "Can we get coffees over here?"
     I just stared at her for a second and said I would be right over. When I returned with three coffees, one of the first two ladies says, "Oh, I don't want coffee. I'll have orange juice... and water." While I am pouring juice, I can hear them clear as day saying, "I don't know what the problem is. When the other girl is working, it's so well organized. Everything just runs tickety-boo."
     Well, fuck you. Fuck you and your smooth sailing, bullshit life, you dusty old prairiefart fuckdouche!
     These are some of the swear words that run through my head while I try to convince myself NOT to lick her cutlery. Instead, I politely say, "I'm sorry you aren't happy with the service. Let's see if I can't be better." And, I take their order... for fresh fruit plates.
     Around 10 o'clock, my shift is almost over and I can start re-stocking, cleaning and vacuuming. A table of two walks in and sits at a dirty table. So, I go over and sweep off some crumbs, clear some plates, get some menus, etc. I had just set down the knife and fork when the woman shakes her head, picks up the fork I had just set down and proceeds to determinedly replace it on the LEFT of her knife. As though she was offended by my ignorance. Now, don't get me wrong. I would love to offer people the most grandiose and luxurious breakfast experience possible, and that entails proper fork placement, as well as, relaxing atmosphere and good grammar. But, sometimes, motherfuckers sit at a dirty table. To boot, they wanted pancakes... and we were out of pancakes. This makes me a double failure.
     So, I'm done with Monday. And, to celebrate, I made the following two recipes. ENJOY!

SHERLA'S FUCK YOU CARB-FREE SHRIMP AND CABBAGE DINNER

 

 

Heat up oil in a frying pan. It doesn't matter how much. Use butter or olive oil or coconut oil or whatever gawddamn greasy shit you have. It just doesn't matter. Fry up some onions and some frozen shrimp with your favourite spices. I used parsley, oregano, pepper flakes and some stuff that Nate gave me. Nobody gives a CRAP what you put in it. It will still taste good. Blanch some cole slaw mix. You can buy it in a bag at No Frills for $1.49. Set aside. Add a small can of diced tomatoes to the shrimp mix and a bit of minced garlic. Thicken with a scoop of tomato paste if you want. Then, add a dollop of mayonnaise. Why mayonnaise? Because "fuck you", that's why. Mix with blanched cabbage mix and top with cheese. Or don't. I don't really care.

 

 

 

BATSHIT COOKIES

cos you're crazy if you don't like 'em

 

To make them, take all the shit out of your cupboards. Beat 1/2 cup soft butter with 1/2 cup soft margarine, 1 1/2 cups brown sugar, 1/1 cup sugar sugar and some vanilla. Add 2 eggs and beat some more. In a separate bowl, combine 1 1/2 cups flour, 1/2 cup some other flour (like whole wheat or teff or red fife), 1 tsp baking POWDER, 1/4 tsp bkg SODA (Why even bother? Is 1/4 tsp gonna make a difference?) Some salt. 1 1/2 rolled oats, 1 cup rice krispies, 1 cup chocolate chips, 1/2 cup of something else you like and 1 cup of coconut. ONLY USE YOUR ONE CUP MEASURING CUP FOR ALL OF THIS OTHERWISE YOU ARE A CHEATER AND A FAILURE AT LIFE. Bake at 350 for 12 minutes.

My Pennsylvania Romance

To continue from yesterday...

Lake Wallenpaupack

Rod and I got up bright and early to head to the border. We left around 7 a.m. for an 8-hour drive to Lakeville, PA, home of Cove Haven Resort. This is supposedly "Where Love Lives".
     Traffic was good. You always get those people who pass you and then slow down. So, you pass them and then they speed up. Ten minutes later they pass you again, etc. etc. That's frigging annoying, isn't it? I just want people to use their goddamn cruise control.
     Anyway, we get to the border and we got a grouchy border patrol officer. I've never been unreasonably delayed at the border, but I always get a grouchy one in one direction and a friendly one in the other. This guy was all "I hate my life" and "What's your citizenship?", "Where are you going?", "How are you related?", "What do you do for a living?" I don't know why they ask you this shit sometimes.
     Then he says, "Why are you going to the Poconos?", which would be a normal question except that he scrunched up his nose at the mere idea of going to northeast Pennsylvania. He asked it in the same way he might ask, "Why are you putting maple syrup on those mashed potatoes?"
     Well, I wanted to take all the credit. I told him how we were going to rent a room with a 7-foot champagne glass-shaped whirlpool tub, a swimming pool, a massage table and a sauna. I stopped short of telling him all the sexual positions I was going to try because he dismissed me with a grimace and a wave of his hand. I think he must have just broken up with his wife or something 'cos he looked like he wanted to barf.
     As we drove away, Rod said he wanted to say we were going to the Poconos "to see the fucking NASCAR race and we want a good seat." But, I wouldn't let him get a word in edgewise.
     Somewhere in the south end of New York, we stopped to pick up a box o' logs for the fireplace, a bag o' pizza-flavoured Combos, some razors and some lube. We also stopped at Sonic so I could share the experience of eating at a traditional drive-in, fast food joint with Rod. He had never been. For those of you who haven't been before, everything they make there is deep fried and covered with meat AND cheese. The only thing I can eat are the Ched'R Poppers. Rod got a chili cheese dog.
     With the first bite, I watched him struggling like a dog who has peanut butter on the roof of its mouth. Turns out, the cheese sauce is unnaturally gummy and could prolly be used to attach dentures. Rod is not a Sonic fan.
     Two hours later, we are driving down a narrow, hilly road with a speed-limit of 55 mph looking for the resort. We finally see a monstrous sign in the middle of a field that directs us to turn onto an even more narrow, bumpy road with another sign. This one was the size of a small election sign in pink and white that said, "Lovers turn here". We almost missed it. Just a few minutes down, we turned in to the resort where they have a snow machine making a 400 metre oval track of snow for the snowmobiles.
     "Oh my fuck," Rodney said, laughing hysterically. All we could think of  was how he and his redneck friends would get on one of those sleds, hang the skis and tear that patch of snow down to the grass in one lap.
     Now, I was very nervous about booking this resort because I had read the reviews on TripAdvisor and heard that the place was "cheesy", "dated", "run down" and downright "dirty". So, when I saw the snowmobiling available, I was a little concerned. But, we checked in anyway and headed to our room.

     "Oh my fuck!" I screamed when I opened the door to our suite. I was jumping up and down like a kid at Chuck E. Cheese. The first thing I noticed was the clean smell of freshly steamed carpets and cleaning supplies. I ran to all of the four levels to check out the tub, the mirrored ceiling, the round, king-sized bed, the heat lamps, the twinkling lights above the bed and the whirlpool... I almost knocked Rodney over trying to get from room to room while he brought in the luggage.
     I had died and gone to romance heaven. I was so happy, I wanted to run down to the front desk and kiss them. Instead I kissed Rodney, which was much more exciting. The next thing I know, we're making out in the heart-shaped pool, making out by the fireplace, and making out in the bathroom while the champagne hot tub fills up.
     It was one of those scenes from a RomCom, in which the couple is swept away with passion, knocking lamps off of the side tables, tripping over each other's arms and legs, knocking someone's head off the side of the pool... pure hormonal fire! At one point, between the champagne tub and the ultra-plush bed, I completely lost Rodney. Turns out, the heat was too much for him. He stood up in the bubbling, hot water and got a head rush, almost falling backwards over the edge of the 7-foot tub! Can you imagine?! What if I had to call for an ambulance to come get my naked and broken husband off the floor? And, me with a concussion from hitting my head off the ceramic tile. After that, we decided we'd better take it easy.
     It had started to freeze rain as we headed to dinner. Our room was located at the top of a steep hill on the northeast end of the resort from the dining room. We walked anyway just to get some cool air and clear our heads. The meals are all inclusive and all-you-can-eat and we were famished. They also have a photographer on-site to take pictures of all the loving couples. Well, I wasn't falling for that gimmick. They take your picture and then they want to charge you $25 for one 4x6 like they do at Canada's Wonderland. Frig that! I'll take my own damn pictures. So, when the photographer came around, I just told him my face wasn't ready for photos. He looked at me like I was on a day pass from the cuckoo nest.
     The rest of the staff had speech impediments, which were really funny to hear in real life. It was just their New York or New Jersey accents, but whenever we heard the server ask, "Kin I gitch yas somethin' from the bah?", it made us pee our pants.
     Dessert was also all-you-can-eat and I wasn't letting anything go to waste. I got soft serve ice cream so I could put on all the toppings at the sundae bar. There was chocolate chips, Reese's Pieces, white chocolate, hot fudge, hot caramel, all kinds of fruit, nuts in brown sugar sauce and candied sprinkles. I was so excited, I was eating my hot caramel in chunks with my fingers on the way back to our table. Rod was too embarassed to be seen with me, but he laughed anyway.
     The next day, we were playing some friendly ping pong at the sports hall when we got signed up for an air hockey competition against another couple. She was pregnant with twins - due in April and already the size of a medicine ball - and he was a 6-foot gangster type guy. Nice people. Rodney felt bad for KICKING THEIR ASSES. Muahahaha. We got a couple of Cove Haven medallions for winning and Rodney wanted to give his to the losers. I tried to explain it's not the same if you don't win.

We are the champions, my friends!

     Karma came back to get me, though. We took out some tennis rackets and balls for the indoor courts and Rodney told the attendant he was gonna beat me over the head with the racket for being mouthy. She laughed kind of nervously, not sure whether he was joking or not, but she gave us the rackets anyway... after we signed a waiver. Sure enough, we had knocked a few balls across the court when I "pulled a Sherla" and tried to return the ball with my face? My top AND bottom lip were puffy and my nose was bleeding a bit when we returned the rackets. Rod says, "See? I told you she was gonna get it!" Good thing we were laughing uncontrollably or she might have called in a domestic.
     I tried to win the Sexual Trivia games for more medallions, but we sucked hardcore. The winning team had 19 out of 24 questions right. We were the bottom of the pile with only 9 out of 24. I also wanted to stay up for the karaoke at Cupid's Corner, but we had been going to bed, totally spent, at 7:30 p.m.
     So, there we were the night before we have to go home. We are stuffed like pigs from the unending food. My butt is sore from walking up and down the steep hill to our room. I have a headache and a goose egg on the back of my skull. My lips are puffy, my nose is bleeding and the muscles in my shoulders are sore from playing tennis for the first time in 25 years.
     I hadn't felt this good in forever! Can't wait to go back next January.

Friday the 13th Road Trip

I've been saving up since November 2010 for a little vacation, starting with a visit to my little girl in London and finishing with three days in the Poconos locked in the honeymoon suite with my beloved husband. Friday, January 13th seemed like an auspicious day to start out.
     About once every 7 years, I manage to convince Rodney to leave Prince Edward County. I like to say he's a bit like a Trillium (Ontario's provincial flower that takes about 7 years to recover from the blossom being picked). Not a big road trip fan, I guess. He insisted that we drive four hours straight through to London. But, he had to stop for a bathroom break and a fourth Tim Horton's coffee in Tillsonburg.
     Once back on the highway, he proceeded to not only pass a Woodstock Police Car doing a buck twenty, but he also did so while sipping his large two cream, one sugar. Living on the edge, Big Rod! Living on the edge.
     In London, we drove straight to my daughter's workplace for lunch. Spicy Tom Yum Soup and Cashew Tofu for me. Alex, who could not visit because she was working, told us it was a bad weekend for us to come because the London Police were investigating some biker related violence in the city. In her words, "Two strip bars and a "rub and tug" were set on fire." Welcome to the Forest City.
     When we arrived at Alex' apartment, I forgot that I hadn't told Rodney about her cat. He is not a cat lover - too much hair. As the first one through the door, I thought about hiding it on the balcony before he could see it. Just my luck, though, he was only two inches in the door when he noticed the cat litter in the closet.
     "Why is there a cat litter box in the closet?" he grimaced.
     "Oh, I forgot to tell you. She has a cat," I put on my brightest waitress smile. The one I use when the customer asks me if we have menus or if I know where the bathroom is. Ugh. I just give them my toothiest smile and say, "Nope. No menus. You just tell me what you feel like and I'll see if we've got it in the fridge back there." Or, "Nope. I don't know where the bathroom is. You'll have to use a pot in the basement just like the rest of us."
     My surprise came further into the apartment when I realized there was a bowl of dog food alongside the bowl of cat food. Turns out she has a dog, too!

Morgan Freeman - Rodney's favourite narrator

     We watched Shawshank Redemption in the afternoon. Rod says to me, "You know why this is such a good movie? 'Cos it has a narrator."
     I looked at him like he had suddenly grown another head. I said, "What the hell are you talking about? So, in your opinion, all a movie has to do to win an Oscar is hire a narrator?"
     "Morgan Freeman," he explained. "That motherfucker can talk to you about anything from penguins to popsicles and make it sound good." True enough.
     Yeah, Rod was full of hilarious, random comments (and early onset seniors moments) on our trip. Later that night, Alex was wearing her track pants while bending over her laundry basket, revealing her thong underwear. Appalled, her father felt the need to express his disapproval. "What's that hanging out? It's like knitting stuff!"
     "I think you mean 'yarn'," Alex replied with an exasperated sigh. She had already corrected him several times for referring to her friend as "Yen" when his name is actually "Juan". He also insists on changing "Adele" (who sings some of his favourite songs) with "Liddell" (as in, Chuck Liddell of UFC fame).
     Notwithstanding the strange language barrier, we enjoyed several games of Yahtzee and Connect Four with our favourite daughter.
     The next night, we were looking for another way to waste some time before heading south. At Yen's suggestion (I mean... "Juan's") we tried The Palasad for pizza and bowling. After our disaster at Big City Diner the night before*, Rod was concerned that the place looked a little seedy. But, we went in anyway and we were both glad we did. Really good, fresh salads followed by crispy, cheesy oven-fired pizza.

Canadian Pizza at The Palasad

     After dinner, we played 10-pin bowling. The Palasad plays a loop of tunes that reminded me of my days at the Tip of the Bay - the local bar where I spent 5 out of seven days a week during my early twenties. Naughty by Nature, Digital Underground and Young Emcee; all my favourite hip hop songs. There's something about music that tickles my brain and makes me so happy. Does that make me weird?
     Anyway, back to reality. We started a game of pool and I ordered the pan-fried brownie with pecans. I was all hopped up on endorphins from a couple of bowling strikes, some Human League and having my husband's undivided attention. Adding a little sugar would put me on a high that you just can't get legally. And, it was soooooo good. A hot, fudgy brownie topped with hot chocolate sauce and caramel pecans on vanilla ice cream. I took one bite and my face puckered up from the tooth ache. IT WAS AWESOME.
     Then, Rodney farted. I didn't hear it happen. I just walked around the pool table and walked into a wall of rotten broccoli and sour milk smell. I'm like, "Did you fart?" and he's like, "Yeah. I didn't think it would smell that bad." and I'm like, "Holy shit. You thought wrong." I had to use my pool cue to block the server from the contaminated side of the room.
     This is just a taste of the hilarity to come. We got on the road at 7 a.m. to head to the border and Rod never got road rage all the way to Lakeville, PA.

* Big City Diner has the potential to be good, but the night we were there, it was not. "Quebec cheese curds" turned out to be shredded mozzarella cheese and "Garlic-roasted beef dip" turned out to be a package of cold roast beef with a translucent slice of cheese.

Entering the Crone phase

So, I'm pretty tired three days after my surgery. Maybe even a little hung over from the morphine pump. I will have a hard time staying focused on my subject and the spelling might suck, but if I have to watch Britney Spears gawddamn jazz hands in her "Criminal" video one more time, I might go nuts. Too late, I know.
     For those of you who aren't on facebook, I was diagnosed with uterine fibroids a few months ago. Many women have asked me how I knew I had them. Well, you could see my fibroid every morning sticking out of my lower belly, like the fair sex version of a pee hard-on. In fact, when I finally had it removed on Monday (along with my uterus), my OB GYN told me it was about the size of a cantaloupe. I won't post a pic of uterine fibroids here 'cos I did that on facebook and I think I lost alot of friends that day. Suffice to say, they are ugly and disturbing. Not to mention, they mess up your mestrual cycle, your hormones and (occasionally) cause some back pain.
     So, what was my million dollar question for the surgeon when he told me it would have to come out - "How is that going to affect my sex life?" Quite honestly, I could feel this... growth... for a while now and I knew it was sitting just over the somewhat elusive, and too often overlooked, G-spot. Without going into too much detail, this added pressure made for very.... accessible... climax. Not that Rod ever needed a map to find it before, but the fibroid was definitely acting like a Staples "Easy" button in my opinion.
     Dr. O'Brien dismissed my concerns with excessive confidence in his surgical abilities. I like excessive confidence in surgeons. Plus, he told me we would only do a "subtotal" hysterectomy, in which I keep all my potential sexy parts (ovaries, cervix and the like). He said it was "very European". I left his office feeling very en vogue. If that's not proof that I'm a sucker, I don't know what is.
    My only condition was to have the procedure done under spinal anaesthetic rather than general, and O'Brien said that was fine with him. Keep that in mind... it was "fine with him". His secretary was a bit of a bitch about it for some reason, but my surgery was booked for December 12th.

     Now, as part of my "goddess-based" religion, the three phases of a woman's life (Maiden, Mother and Crone) are very important milestones to be celebrated. However, I was unsure how to feel about this life change. It's very depressing to know I don't NEED a uterus anymore. And, it's a reminder of my age to start taking out things that don't work or are basically excess parts. Not that I WANT more children, but there's a big difference between WANTING them and being ABLE to make them. Am I broken now that I don't have a uterus? Incomplete?
     On the other hand, NO MORE PERIODS!!! YAY!
     Anyway, the days flew by, as they tend to do, and December 12th came. I didn't sleep the night before and I was a nervous wreck that morning. I am not nervous about being cut open, not nervous about pain, not nervous about hospitals. I just don't like being out of control. The inevitability of it sent me into panic attacks. If you don't have control issues, I can't describe it to you. It's ridiculous... like being afraid of whales (which I am). My rational, conscious personality knows this, but she doesn't make the rules. It's the disconnected, subconscious, chocoholic bitch that calls the shots here.
     Speaking of hospitals, what the fuck? Are they run by Bell Canada, too? They ought to start telling you to be available between the hours of midnight and 5 p.m. because if you have an appointment for 8:15 a.m., you are likely to expect to start getting shit done at 8:15 a.m. However, that's very stupid of you because, clearly, an appointment is just a recommendation... a suggested time of arrival, if you will. At 9 a.m. they told me I would be getting in at 10:20 a.m. At 11:30 a.m., they told me I would get in at 1:40 p.m. At 2 p.m., they started saying, "It won't be long now."
     I don't know what time I actually lay outside the operating room getting questioned and re-questioned by the staff. It's very disconcerting to be waiting for surgery when everyone keeps coming over to ask what your name is, what you're having done, etc. I mean, I just kind of showed up when you told me to; shouldn't you KNOW who I am and what I am having done while I'm here?
     First, it's the nurse, "What's your name? What are you having done today?" I told her and I made sure to add that it was being done under spinal anaesthetic and she confirmed.
     Then, the Doctor, "How are you doing? Are you ready?"< rifles through patient info > "We're doing the subtotal hysterectomy today." It's like he's just double checking, so I make sure that he knows it's being done under spinal anaesthetic. "Oh yeah, that's fine with me," he says.
     Next, the anaesthetist comes over. "So.... Sheila. I am  your anaesthetist and I'm going to make sure you're comfortable today."
     "Yes, you're giving me a spinal anaesthetic," I say.
     "Ummm, I don't think that's a good idea," he says.
     .... LOST.... ALL .... CONTROL....
    I tried to walk out. Not easy when you're attached to intravenous in a bed with guard rails. I argued. I cried. I pleaded. This was non-negotiable from my perspective. In the end, I won. On condition that if things got bad, he could knock me out. I said, "How will you know?" And he said, "Oh, I'LL KNOW."
     By the time I got into the O.R., I was hyperventilating and couldn't feel my fingers, so I had to have a sedative. I was so out of it, he could have put me out without any fight. All I remember was the topic of conversation in the room - it had something to do with really good coffee at some place called "L'Auberge-something-or-other". I'd love to know if that really happened or if I was hallucinating.
 That's really random even for a hallucination, don't you think?

     The next two minutes of consiousness were among the worst in my life and I have a VERY high pain tolerance. Like Bil Heffernan says, I'm a "tough ass county girl." Lol. But, they started shoving in the catheter, then the cutting happened... and then the shoving and tugging and pulling! It felt like they cut a hole in my stomach and proceeded to vigorously shove a vacuum hose up into my lungs! That was what I was envisioning anyway, because that was what it felt like. I think I screamed "OW, OW, OW!" and that was it, my anaesthetist saved the day.

     I don't remember a whole lot afer waking up. Rod stayed with me most of the night as I was in and out of consciousness. The nurses came in every hour or so for vitals. By 7 a.m. the next morning, about 15 hours after my surgery, they took out my catheter and I was walking to the bathroom by myself. Yeah, bitches! Tough ass county girl, right herr!

     I was sooooo hot in that hospital; could not wait to get out into the fresh (and unseasonaby warm) December air. I was beginning to worry they had taken out my ovaries, too, causing me hot flashes. Turns out, they just like to keep the hospital at about 98 Celsius. So, when I got home and crawled into Rodney's bed with my head face down and my ass in the air, I started to cry. I mean, I was blubbering like a baby. I was so happy to get into my 66 Celsius house, it was like I could finaly relax after about 3 months of worrying and panic. And, that is how I marked my metamorphosis from Mother to Crone.... I cried and gave thanks for cool flannel sheets.


I couldn't resist.... so gross!



I Don't Have to Dress Like Snookie to Fit In... Phew!



I think he looks like Vin Diesel

      If I had an iPod (which I don't, because I would lose it or it would break... like my Kobo that I bought in August. It froze last week and I have sent increasingly hostile e-mails to the Kobo help desk, featuring such endearing words as "dick", "shit" and "damn customer service". I am not a fan of the Kobo Customer Service team.)
     But, if I had an iPod, it would have an eclectic mix of songs from classical to hip hop and Celtic to Bollywood. I just like music. I probably wouldn't take the time to put any Daughtry songs on my iPod, but I would drive two hours to see him in concert and get home at 2:30 a.m. even though I have to work at 7 a.m. because Sheri likes Daughtry... and I like Sheri.
     We saw him about 3 years ago when he was opening for Bon Jovi at the Air Canada Centre and it was a good show. We had a good time. The tickets were crazy expensive as I recall, but Sheri paid. I have excellent friends :)
     So, when she mentioned on facebook that she was thinking of seeing her boyfriend, Daughtry, in concert again, I offered to go. It wasn't until about a week before the show that I asked where he was playing. To which she replied, "The Phoenix Concert Theatre".
     I had never heard of this venue, so I decided to Google it. Turns out, The Phoenix is a nightclub in Toronto! Now, this may seem like a very small deal to some of the population.To me, it is both intimidating and frightening. City night clubs are so far removed from anything I (as a County girl) am used to. She might as well have told me he was playing in a castle at the bottom of the sea!
     First of all, County girls generally have one outfit for weddings (i.e. a little black dress) and one outfit for work (depending on whether they work in a nursing home, in an office, in a daycare or at a restaurant.... those are the four choices here). There is only one outfit for a night at the bar and that is tight jeans, t-shirt and high-heeled boots.
     Now, I've seen Sex in the City AND Jersey Shore and that is just not how they do things in the more densely populated sections of the planet. Night clubs require big hair, smoky eyes, glossy lips, Jimmy Choos and short skirts. I started to panic a little bit! I'm just not a Jimmy Choo kinda girl! I mean, I would totally buy a pair (from Value Village maybe), but I couldn't actually wear them. I really like all the funky lamps at IKEA too, but that doesn't mean I'd actually have one in my house. At least not where everyone could see it.
     Anyway, I saw a pair of thigh-high riding boots at Winners that I thought would pass for haute couture with a pair of jeggings and a nice top. Unfortunately, they were $60 and I am currently broke. Not like "disconnection notice/can't buy name brand KD" broke. Just can't-afford-no-fucking-$60-boots broke.
     I mentioned my concerns to a girl at work and she offered up a nice, gold-striped, sheer black shirt that would be perfect for the occasion. She bought it in Las Vegas for $80 while drunk shopping in a sketchy boutique where she stumbled over some boxes to try it on in a store room. But, that's her story to tell and I've probably already butchered the truth of it anyway.
     At least, I had a plan. I picked Sheri up at 5-ish on Monday night and she was wearing jeans, Daughtry t-shirt and high-heeled boots and she looked really good. I was still planning on stopping at Winners to pick up those $60 CFM boots, whether I could afford them or not. On the way, I asked Sheri if she was excited to be reunited with her boyfriend after all these years. She just shrugged and said, "Not really."
     WTF?! This was not normal. I know Sheri is in love with a real man and all, but Daughtry has been her loverboy since he was on American Idol five years ago, for crissakes. He would be top of the list of celebrities she is allowed to sleep with regardless of marital status. Over the years, my list has included Ben Affleck, Adam Sandler and Gerrard Butler. I don't think anyone is on my list right now. Taylor Lautner is cute and all, but I am not interested in having sex with Lava Boy.
     I spent about 20 minutes looking for matching boots in the state of emergency they called the footwear section at Winners that evening. In the end, I said to hell with it. Sheri looks awesome in jeans and t-shirt. And, I just happened to bring a black, fitted Tee I recently purchased from grouphugapparel.com. Those highfalutinToronto bitches would just have to kiss my ass if they didn't like my traditional native moccasins!
     Took two hours to get downtown and we found the place on Sherbourne pretty easily. Parking was a bit more difficult. But, it gave us a chance to scope out the locals in the lineup. They were all wearing high-heeled boots, blue jeans and t-shirts. I had to lmao.
     The Phoenix actually looks like my kind of night club - bars at every corner, disco ball, poor lighting, creepy 20-foot portraits on the walls and a loft with comfy couches. We spent an hour standing in the loft waiting for the show, only to discover there was an opening act not listed on the ticket stub. The bleached-blonde, beach boy played about seven songs in a row that all sounded suspiciously alike. I did enjoy his version of U2's "With or Without You" and Night Ranger's "Sister Christian". My calves were killing me as we waited for the sound check crew to finish up. It was damn near 10:30 p.m. when Chris Daughtry finally arrived on stage.
     Sheri said, "I thought I was over him, but I just felt my heart go pitter-patter."
     The "loft" crowd was not excited enough for my liking. They were all sipping their coolers and quietly observing the rock concert from the comfort of their chrome chairs with the disinterested expression of perfume models. I headed down to the main floor where there appeared to be more enthusiasm. I had no problem manoeuvering through the masses because everyone was standing a respectable (and classically Canadian) two feet apart, but Sheri seemed happy to be at the edge of the crowd where she had a clear line of sight to the brown-eyed, sweaty, bald man she loves. This put me, however, behind an ogre-sized fellow wearing a robin's-egg-blue hoodie and size 13 high tops. I couldn't see shit. Not unless it was in this guy's pants because his ass was at my eye level. No jokes, this guy was tall.
     Meanwhile, a plus-size brunette and her equally stout blonde friend were pretending to be drunk and acting like tools right in front of Sheri. I say they were "pretending" because these girls had no respect for alcohol. Since I couldn't see anything else, I watched them flail around with a single shot of rye and cola for 15 minutes without ever taking a sip. There was far more booze on the floor than they ever got in their obnoxious mouths. The brunette almost knocked Sheri in the face when she leaned back to holler. Don't get me wrong - I have absolutely been "that girl" at a concert before; acting drunk and irritating the masses. But, I wasn't in the mood for her 'cause I had pulled a hamstring 3 days earlier, doing the splitz after chugging a six-pack at a 60th birthday party. I know. I'm a hypocrite.
     I was beginning to feel like Goldilocks - the loft was too laid back, the back of the crowd was too intense, but the spot right beneath the disco ball seemed perfect.
     I don't think Daughtry ever made eye contact with Sheri. She was obviously smitten nonetheless. I enjoyed the second half of his set, which included "Over You" - my favourite Daughtry song. I was also really impressed with the fact that he likes Elton John's Rocket Man and Billy Idol's Rebel Yell.

I am deceptively thin-looking in this pic. That makes me happy.

     He didn't swear once! Nor did he take off his shirt in spite of repeated requests from the crowd. I found this shocking because every concert I've ever been to has included the kind of foul language that one might hear while sitting in the passenger seat of my car as I try to find my way out of the gawddamn underground parking lot! Sheri has informed me that Chris Daughtry is a Christian man whose wife just gave birth to twins last year. Won't mom be proud? I watched a Christian rock concert while stone-cold sober and driving just slightly over the speed limit on the ride home. Can I get a witness?

Brought to you today by the letter H and number 1 (in the bushes)

I just called a cab to get home from Colleen’s house and the crazy cab driver is doing like 150K down Main Street, Picton. At home, I’m so liquored that I can’t hold a spoon to eat my rice pudding. It’s that damn Australian wine, chrissakes! Get’s me every time. This one was a Penley Estates Rose... and I haven’t drunk rose since the Mateus phase in the 11th grade. I find it tastes like Tahiti Treat.


So, who’s Colleen? I don’t know. A friend of mine is house sitting for her. I don’t think that’s her real name, but it’s the best I can come up with in my wobbly state. I bought a bottle of wine to take to my dad’s 67th birthday party and, after a couple of drunken laps with the zero point lawn tractor, I ended up getting Big Rod to drop me off at a hot tub on Main Street. We were celebrating a D-I-V-O-R-C-E... which is nowhere near final. She just had the papers served. But, that’s a good enough reason for me to drink wine in a hot tub with two girls who went to high school with me.

Hhhhhot tubs are great for all the “H” topics of conversation – such as, horseback riding, houses for sale, hemorrhoids, husbands, high school and how to hook up in the digital world. It is also like walking onto the set of Days of Our Lives, in which one woman’s ex is buying the house of her best friend’s ex in an area that is nowhere of any interest to him geographically. Meanwhile, the best friend’s ex is now dating a woman he said he hated.

That last sentence comes as no surprise to me and isn’t really gossip worthy. There’s a fine line between hate and love - just read Pride and Prejudice. In fact, I used to think my husband was a no-good, womanizing tool. The only reason I ever had anything to do with him was because he was a “sure thing” and I was a single mom with low self-esteem. Imagine my surprise when he told me he wouldn’t sleep with me because (and I quote), “The next time I get with someone, it will be the last time. It will be forever.” What an arsehole. ;)

Anyway, I’ve always wanted a hot tub, but I don’t think they are useful in the summer. They are too hot to sit in and too cold to get out of. So, you spend 3 hours in an uncomfortable position, half-out and half-in some people soup. Colleen’s does have a cool, underwater coloured light that really brings out the cellulite on my thighs, ffs. You don’t want to hear about my cellulite though. What you really wanna hear about is my pee break.

So, Colleen’s deck is a slab of concrete that is situated about 5 feet above the backyard and about 3 feet over the side yard. Although it was dark, I presume there are some flowers or shrubs along the concrete at the side. There is, fortunately, a sturdy wooden garden box with some lovely chrysanthemums, as well as, some solar LEDs. This looked like an excellent place for me to pop a squat. Clearly, I was drunk.

Drunk Pissing Over Small Bluff

I assumed the squatting position with my ass well over the side of the 3-foot drop. Now, 3 feet is clearly not life threatening, but if you are midstream and lose your balance to fall backwards into the nether, you will probably break your neck or, at least, bite your tongue really hard on impact. I’m teetering on the edge of this cliff, holding onto the garden box with my left hand and pulling my $80 Roots bathing suit (on-sale-for-half-price at Sears) to the side at the crotch with my right hand so as not to soil myself. This should absolutely be a yoga pose! I would call it, “Drunk pissing over small bluff.” Of course, my urine would not stop coming. Longest pee in history. URGH!