Oreo Cake

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

Landscaping - How it`s done.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

YES Therapy

     I find myself with alot of time on my hands these days. The appropriate thing to do when one is in this situation is a) do not panic b) reconnect with friends and c) don't say no, just say yes.

     Monday, I got a text from Danielle. "Do you have a skill saw and a T-square and some spare time?"

     In this case, I have to say no, but only because I don't have those tools. However, I do have lots of free time. So, I guess I'm laying laminate flooring with Danielle.

     The first thing you learn from YES Therapy (which I may patent; Dr. Sherla has a nice ring to it) is that "There is so much to learn in life", and learning is what makes living worthwhile to me. Learning, connecting and making memories. When someone asks you to help them lay laminate flooring, they aren't asking you to make a sacrifice for them! They are asking you to participate in learning, connecting and making memories.

     I learned that Danielle's dog, Miller, likes to hump me. Alot. I'm his favourite. We certainly made a connection. I had to take him for a walk to get out some of the sexual tension. Meanwhile, Danielle managed to move a refrigerator singlehandedly into her bedroom. I also learned that Danielle is stronger than she looks! Especially in her pink pyjamas.

Danielle installing underlayment, cos we ain't stupid

     Also, according to the directions on laminate flooring, it is preferable to lay the floor parallel to the light source. At 6:30 at night, Danielle's light source is a round, ceiling light as far as I'm concerned. How in the fuck are we going to determine what is parallel to a round light?

     Fortunately, there are people who actually use their brains when assisting with home renovations - unlike myself. Apparently, it is preferable to lay the floor parallel to the NATURAL light source - which would be the way the light shines through the window during the day. This seems stupid to me, but at least now I know. Laminate flooring looks better if the sunlight shines on it lengthwise. (I call bullshit on this one).

     Tuesday morning, I get a text from Janet. "Are we having breakfast this morning?" To which I replied, "I dunno. Are we?"

     The answer is, of course, yes.

     While having breakfast, Janet mentions she has sooooo much laundry. I like laundry. "Do you want me to come over and help you do laundry?"

     Again, the answer is yes.

My Lopsided Green Lantern

     While I am at Janet's house doing laundry (which is uncommonly slow work FYI), Danielle asks if I want to throw a ball around for the dogs at the Bloomfield tennis courts.

     What else? YES!!

     Wednesday, I see they are looking for people to make paper lanterns for the annual Firelight Lantern Festival in Picton. I love lanterns and crafts! YES! Do you know the kind of work involved in making a paper lantern? You basically have to tape wooden skewers together to make a shape and then cover that shape with tissue paper. Surely, A child can do this. I chose to make a nice, simple square. Three other lantern makers arrived and left before I finished my lopsided, green lantern. Two of them had children with them. But, I learned that you need an awful lot of masking tape to keep wooden skewers together and there is some benefit to having Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, like Danielle. When I got home with my green lantern and Danielle's white star (yeah, she made a fucking star! Overachiever!), Rod says, "Oh, you did such a nice job on the star... what happened to the square?" Asshole.

A Beer Mitten for cold days

     Thursday, I started working on a new crochet project. Someone posted a photo of a beer mitten on facebook and asked if I could make one. Of course, I said yes. But, I don't like to do things without a recipe, a pattern or some kind of step by step directions. I just don't have that much faith in my abilities. Here is another benefit to YES Therapy. "You never really know what you are capable of until you try". The results were actually much more impressive than I would have imagined! I did it! I really did it. 

     Then, another facebook friend asked if I had a pattern I could share. I didn't, but I certainly COULD write one out. This was a conditional YES. I could share the pattern, only IF I could figure out how I had done it in the first place. The results were.... acceptable. More of a crochet guide than a pattern. If you are so inclined, check it out at http://roshalau.tumblr.com/post/102655864693/beermitten-crochet-homemade-handmade-mitten.

     In other news, my son has wanted to join the Canadian Armed Forces for quite some time. This would not be my first choice for a career for my son. When I imagine his future, I picture every horrific war movie I've ever seen, particularly Saving Private Ryan. Out of respect, he has never enlisted. But, on Friday, it was time for me to say yes to his dreams for a change. So, we went to the recruiting office in Kingston. He is very excited to start a new chapter in his life, and if I'm not completely elated, I'm at least excited on his behalf. Sometimes saying yes is hard. That is another life lesson brought to you by YES Therapy - "It's not all about you".

     Finally, on Saturday I taught Rodney the value of YES Therapy. He never wants to do anything or go anywhere. He's always so tired. So busy. So much more interested in laying on the couch or working in the garage. But, he said yes to a walk with Muffy and I. He let me choose where to go, so I decided on the Dunes Trail at Sandbanks. We were walking along, enjoying the beautiful November sun, when it struck me. 

    "Wanna go have sex in the trees?" I asked.

     Surprisingly enough, the answer to this question is, "No, you fucking loon!"

     We had been walking for about a kilometer when we decided to turn towards the lake. The view was beautiful. It was an amazing day. That's when it struck him.

     "Wanna go have sex on that picnic table?" He asked.

     Surprisingly enough, the answer to this question is also no. Although, I considered getting down in the tall grass. I just couldn't figure out the logistics of sex on the beach in 0 degree weather.

Lake Ontario in November

     I couldn't find the trail back to the car at first. We had walked almost 5 km according to the GPS through sand (which is harder than regular walking) when we came upon a lovely spot of pine trees. It was a perfect place for some winter cuddling. The final lesson from YES Therapy is, "sometimes you just shouldn't ask". Sometimes, you should just walk off into the pine trees and drop trou. It is unfortunate that ones lips tend to be ice cold after an hour long hike in freezing weather. So, you should probably say no to any oral sex. Otherwise, maneuvering around your long underwear on a bed of pine needles is a perfectly acceptable way to finish a long week of learning, connecting and making memories.

     

She's looking wider with cider inside her!

So, let's be real for a second.

     Life's way too fucking short. For me, it's too short to do all of the things I want to do. It's also too expensive. I'm broke. Like, still keeping my head above water, paying bills and still-buying-fancy-coffees kind of broke, but really only living on borrowed money.

     It wasn't any better when I was making $16 an hour as a bookkeeper. More things were paid on time, but I had no time to enjoy my dog, no time to crochet slippers, no time to walk in the woods and no time to bake cookies and have nice meals with my husband. What kind of living is that?

That's bullshit living is what that is!

     So, as you are no doubt aware, I was working at the County Cider Company for a few weeks. Which was awesome - frustrating dealing with tourists, but awesome nonetheless. However, the pizza oven closed down on Canadian Thanksgiving Monday about two weeks ago. Bye Bye Tips... I miss you terribly :'(

Don't cry for me, Large and Teenie. The truth is, I never left cider.

All through these broke times. My crazy whimsies.

I kept on working. I go the distance!

....Sorry, I had a brief Andrew Lloyd Weber moment there. Back to business...

     Now I am doing three things: Retail, Pressing and Bottling. Retail is fairly simple and self-explanatory. I offer people tastings of all the cider products we sell. I have met more people from more countries all over the world in the last two weeks than I have EVER met before. And, of course, I have more opportunity to talk with them about life in these countries and make connections with them than I ever did as a busy server. 

     Turns out, people like to talk about themselves and what they do and where they're from. 

     Huh. That was a light bulb moment for me, despite the fact that I clearly like to talk about myself and what I do and where I'm from.

   Did you know: People from Normandy used to serve cider in pitchers with every meal. And, Germans (not unlike Canadians) are very different depending on what part of Germany they come from, but they all know about Apfelwein. Some Scots speak a completely different language - Doric. I can't understand a fecking word of it (Ken Fit a Mean?) I feel like I've traveled the world without leaving work!

     But, being fascinated by all things new and interesting, I was anxious to research the beginnings of hard cider. How it's made; where it gets it's subtle flavours; what tools are required to make the beverage I have been serving up.

Chris and the Lifty Thingy

     First of all, sorting and pressing apples is dirty work. I wore my sweats and brought my gloves. The apples arrived in the barn in huge wooden crates via tractor. Then, they put it on a hydraulic lifty thingy so we could dump the apples slowly onto the conveyor belt. This is a bit of an art because apples don't roll out as nice and even as you would like. They either fall too slowly and you stand there with one finger up your ass doing nothing, or they come out hundreds at a time and then the conveyor belt won't work.

     Anyone who has seen the Lucille Ball episode where she is working in a chocolate factory and the chocolate is coming out too fast can imagine my dilemma. When the apples poured out too fast, I just grabbed handfuls and handfuls of apples. The rotten ones were flying behind me, mushy apples were getting in my hair, I mostly tried to push them to the next person in line so THEY could deal with it.

     And, when I'm talking about rotten apples, you don't even KNOW! I'm talking black, shriveled up chunks of penicillin. I'm talking, sat-on-your-counter-in-a-plastic-bag-for-weeks, full of weird little larva and smelling like fermented fruit (obvsly).

     From there, the good apples went through a washing machine and then got chopped up to itty bits and put in a holding bin, where they were sucked up through a hose and deposited into the accordion press. The press got so much juice out of the apples, the leftovers looked like pressboard, known as "pomace". And, the cider went through another hose to a huge holding tank.

Billy and the itty bits

     When I got home after seven hours of sorting apples, lifting filthy crates of rotten apples, I smelled horrible. Like I was dipped in apple cider vinegar two months ago and hadn't had a bath yet. The old man wouldn't even give me a "welcome home" kiss!

     My next stop on the cider-making train was the bottling facility. I heard everyone likes it there because you don't have to deal with people and it's quiet... until the capper breaks the bottles and glass goes flying and people die from exsanguination. This has never happened. Well, the capper breaks, but people have never died. I'm not even sure they've been cut. In my mind, it is a disaster. I just crossed my fingers and hoped they wouldn't put me in front of the capping machine.

Accordion Press

     That's exactly where they put me. I walked in the door and my first station was the capper, ffs. My job was simply to make sure there was a cap on every bottle as it left my station, make sure there were caps coming through the machine properly (not getting stuck) and make sure the bottles didn't fall over before they got to the capper. Basically, I had to watch the machine do all the work.

     I was there less than five minutes when one of the bottles smashed! It sounded like an Alka Seltzer commercial - there was a loud POP POP of breaking glass and then a FIZZ FIZZ from the sound of cider spray... there was no relief. Not for me. I just stood there like an idiot while Sean grabbed the surrounding bottles so they wouldn't continue to go through the glass shards. He then yelled for Amanda, who rushed to clean up the mess, all while the rest of the process continued to move along. I just watched, horrified. 

     My one job (to make sure there was a cap on every bottle) sounds like an easy enough task, right? Wrong. You watch one hundred bottles go by every minute and see if they don't start to look alike - cap or no cap. Sean had to watch my station, as well as his own, and occasionally grabbed an uncapped bottle as it moved along the line. After a couple of hours, though, I became an expert Chief Looker and Bottle Watcher. Since then, I have manned the bottle drying and labeling station and the packing station. They may even invite me back. 

     The important thing, from my perspective, is that I am continuing to learn knew things and meet new people and make connections. Life IS way too short and I want a path that takes short cuts and scenic routes, through orchards and assembly lines, along my journey.

Change is Good. Karma is a Bitch. And, always keep a Tim Horton's coffee cup for emergencies.

For almost a year, I've been working as a bookkeeper. It's a 9 to 5, Monday to Friday job that requires hours of looking at a computer screen and very little human interaction. What little human interaction there is involves people asking me for money the company owes them or me asking for money that is owed to the company.

Officially, the most uninspiring career on earth. And, that includes my job as a filing clerk for London Life.

On September 5th, I left my keys to the office on my desk and just didn't go back the following Monday. I changed my cell number and even disabled my facebook account so I could just drop off the planet for a couple of weeks. Not the most mature way of doing things, but that's what I did. I've never been accused of acting like a grown up and I'm not about to change my modus operandi.

On September 7th, I took a job as a server at The County Cider Company. It wasn't planned. I was just heading home from a relaxing afternoon at the cottage and stopped in to ask for a job. I got a t-shirt that says "Cider Girl" and a 6-hour shift on the following day. It was like it was meant to be.

Flashback to a few weeks earlier, when the number crunching was really getting me down. I asked some friends via social networking to remind me how terrible it is to work in the hospitality industry. The response was fast and furious. I received several reminders, with countless examples, of the clueless-ness of people who are not servers.

I was not to be deterred, apparently. But, last Saturday, it all came back to me. It was just a shit show at the Cider House patio - we were packed and there was a lineup of people waiting for a table. Some of them were more patient and more pleasant than others.

 I got all of the usual stupid questions;
"Do you have a bathroom?"
A: "No. We squat in the vineyard."

"Do you have gluten-free pizza?"
A: "If we had such a blasphemous thing as a gluten-free pizza, it would say "Gluten-Free Pizza" on the menu and you wouldn't have to ask. We do, however, have gluten-free salad."

"Do you serve cappuccinos?"
A: "Do I look like a motherfucking barista? My t-shirt says "Cider Girl" in big red letters across my 38-triple Ds, bitch. I ain't wearin' a green apron with a mermaid's bare titties on the front. Get your Pumpkin Spice Latte lovin' ass out my face!"

I sound angry, but I'm really loving every minute of my work day. I am outside in the beautiful fall weather with people who genuinely love the food, the cider and the incomparable view of Lake Ontario from the middle of an orchard/vineyard. I smile myself stupid every day. That being said, I looked forward to a day off with my hubby to go to Le Nordik Spa-Nature in Quebec.

It was a rainy Sunday morning when we left. I was scheduled to work, but the patio is closed when it rains. So, we set out after a quick stop for a Vanilla Chai Latte at The Bean Counter Cafe. The irony of my need to order a beverage I would hate to even be asked for at my current job (one that I feel is the epitome of a high maintenance, white-girl drink) from a business titled The "Bean Counter" - a career that I have recently added to my "NeverFuckingAgain" list of things to do in my life - is not lost on me.

I drank my sickeningly sweet (but yummy) latte, as well as, some of Rod's large two cream coffee from Tim Horton's, which means a pee break in Gananoque. I continued to sip on the coffee he picked up at the On Route in spite of his continued warnings about my 40 something bladder.

Pshaw. Chelsea was only an hour and a half away. I can hold it that long with a tap running!

However, no one told me the 2014 Canada Army Run half marathon was taking place in Ottawa that day. Which means, I was parked in traffic on Nicholas Street for about half an hour. By the time I finally got onto Rideau Street, I was shifting gears and holding my crotch at equal intervals. Had to pull over at a convenience store and... do what? Ask them if they have a bathroom? They'll probably tell me to squat in the vineyard!

I switched seats with Rod and took the lid off the gawdamn extra large Tim Horton's coffee cup I had enjoyed so much. In the middle of the day, I tried to relax my pelvic muscles with my jeans around my knees and my knees up by my shoulders while I hold a paper cup under what I hope I have identified as my urethra. I stopped and started three times before I had emptied my bladder. Poor Rod, who loves me more than I will ever know, emptied my half full paper cup of steaming urine three times out the driver side window with nary a snicker or "I told you so".

The moral of the story is, karma is a bitch. However, the rest of the afternoon was spent in the beautiful Gatineaus amid the lightly falling rain with the smell of burning birch logs while relaxing in the hot tubs, saunas, and amazing floating pool at Le Nordik.

On Monday, I found out the weather in Prince Edward County cleared up at 10 a.m. The County Cider Company was open for business and just as busy as the day before. And, I had not shown up for my scheduled shift.

Facebook IRL

The Visitors - Kairn and Sherla

 

      Before we could tell what was going on in people's lives with the click of a button, we used to do this thing called "visiting". It was weird. You went to someone's house, often unannounced, and you talked about the weather, or gossiped about your friends, or reminisced about old times. We can still do that, but it is very time consuming and gas is $1.42 a litre. So, quite frankly, why bother?

     I guess I did it for the nostalgia. Kairn texted me earlier this week to suggest a "visit" with Alison, whom she had not seen for several years. Thanks to facebook, Kairn doesn't have to see Alison; she can just "like" it when Alison updates her status or posts a funny picture of a cat. Alison, however, "commented" on Kairn's facebook that she should "stop by". Therefore, Kairn texted me to suggest a real life "visit".

I grow weary of these "quotation marks"!

     Alright, we'll do this visiting thing. I woke up early Saturday morning, eager to start the day. Then I said, "fuck that" and laid down on the kitchen floor for a nap. Around 10 a.m., I hear loud voices in my dooryard and my dog bursts out the front door all barky and growly. I didn't even know she could open the screen door. Hm. It is Kairn and her mom just checking out the chickens (my four chickens are growing so big, btw! I am very excited about fresh eggs and I love my little girls!).

Muffy in the Chicken Coop with Parm, Kiev, Tandoori and Nugget

      I dragged my ass off the kitchen floor and go out with my hair all frizzy, wearing a maxi skirt and a ratty, old sweatshirt - no bra - to greet my guests.

    I can barely form a sentence because I am so tired. But, the gist of the conversation is - Kairn will be back soon to embark on our visit. Good. I'm ready... Or, I will be.

     Took Muffy to the park because if I go visiting without her, she will probably destroy yet another pair of shoes. By the time we get back, Kairn is waiting in the driveway. I facebook Alison to let her know I am on my way and she should put the kettle on... or whatever she needs to do to have company.

     Meanwhile, Kairn and I stop for ice and booze because it is a beautiful, hot summer day and you never know when a party might break out. Actually, we are going on what is known locally as a "Horn Trip" (more quotes). A horn trip involves driving around all of the "horns" on the island where we live, usually while drinking. What the hell are horns, anyway? This was a topic of discussion for the liquor store...

     "We're going on a horn trip," Kairn declared at the checkout counter.

     "I haven't been on a horn trip in years!" says the guy ahead of us.

     "Well, technically, we aren't drinking on this horn trip," I clarify. "We are driving and THEN we are going to drink. But, how do I explain "Horns" to people on my blog? What do regular people call horns?"

     No one seemed to know. But, everyone knows now because I pointed out on the map and yelled all through the liquor store that "horns", according to a map of Prince Edward County, are more commonly referred to as "points"! We were going on a "Point Trip"!

That does not have the same ring to it. It also implies that we will be pointing to things along the way. While that may be entirely true, it sounds boring and a Horn Trip is never boring.

     The first point we headed towards was actually a Port. Northport, to be exact, where Alison lives with her cat Bethany, who was having her fifteenth birthday. There wasn't any cake :(

     On arrival, Alison offers us coffee, tea or wine (as per the rules of visiting). She was drinking wine, it was at least 11 a.m., so I had a glass of wine, too. What the hell? It's not every day that one's cat turns 15! We proceeded to discuss the usual topics - work, family, love and the good ole days. In that order. All the while, the neighbours are installing what sounds like a test area for jack hammers. Seriously, use a shovel for whatever shitty, bourgeois, dedication to suburbia you are currently erecting and let the rest of the world enjoy a quiet Saturday morning, ya freaks! Gawd, I hate people who give a shit about their landscaping!

     Speaking of neighbours, Alison used to have neighbours who were really weird. Like, right out of an episode of Jerry Springer kind of weird. The subject of this particular episode is "My boyfriend fell in love with my mother, who doesn't have any teeth". Anyway, they were evicted and left the house in a mess, complete with months of garbage bags and rotting meat from the freezer attracting rats to the basement. A nice young couple have since moved in and gutted the place. They make sauerkraut and sell it in Toronto.

     I'm not kidding you! Check out the website http://www.pyramidfarmandferments.com.

     Alison says the sauerkraut is quite good and I didn't know she was ever really into sauerkraut. She was into having the best parties at her house on Glenora Road! We got out the photo albums at this point in our visit so we could re-live the good times we had. Gawd, I was good looking 20 years ago! What happened? We were all little hawties in our acid-washed jeans and high-waisted shorts. Kairns hair was down below her ass and curly, curly, curly. Alison used to shave the sides of her head and spike up her naturally blond hair. She wore a pink, satin dress to prom. There were pics of Christine before she developed the biggest set of knockers this side of the Bay of Quinte. Sheri was wearing an itty, bitty bikini at Edgewater Park, which is where Alison and Kairn jumped on two people inside a small tent and destroyed an inflatable Slush Puppy. All the guys were skinny, pimple-faced teenagers, too. Sooooo long ago. We had so much fun, but now we have reached our quota of fun, I guess.

     Two hours later, we were back on the road on our way to Green Point. Kairn was going to let the dog out: Molly was good. She peed. She pooped. She sniffed. We were back on Highway 49 heading to the Loyalist Parkway and Lake on the Mountain with a stop at MacFarland Park to see the house Sheri just bought. It was big. And blue. Nice.

     On Bongard's Crossroad, we had wood-fired pizzas and cider cocktails at The County Cider Company (http://www.countycider.com). Kairn doesn't like cider, so I drank her cocktail. We did get to visit briefly with Tanya, who I hadn't seen for years. She had the most amazing body back in high school. I can't decide if I was more jealous or attracted. Either way, she has aged well. I also saw former co-workers and my friend's oldest son, whose first day on the job was Saturday! Exciting! The sun was hot, the cider was cold and the pizza was yummy.

     Next stop was home to pick up Muffy before heading to Long Point for a visit with Dannle! Dannle is staying at a cottage on Half Moon Bay that is just beautiful and I am definitely jealous. She showed us pictures from the night before. Her boyfriend was celebrating his 39th birthday, face down in a cake shaped like a vagina. It was very anatomically correct for something made out of fondant. Although, the clitoris was unusually large in my opinion. Anyway, not something you see everyday... a cake made to look like lady parts.

     We convinced Muffy to take her first official swim in South Bay. Dannle pushed her gently into the water and then Kairn pulled her into the deeper water where she dog paddled her little heart out. I was very proud. It was a good day. I am happy to stick to facebook for most of my news, but you can't beat face time for the best experiences.

Wedding Crashers Rule #84: Whatever it takes to get in, get in.

It's quarter to two on Saturday morning. I haven't been up this late in years! It's been a crazy night. Like... surreal.

One of the door prizes at
the 25th Sophiasburgh Central School reunion.
???

My friend, Kairn, suggested we go out this weekend for drinks and "shaloming". That's kind of an inside joke. We like to make up dances when we go out. Dances that are not sexy and could, in fact, be likened to something like The Carleton (from Fresh Prince of Bel Air) Anyway, the last time we were out we came up with shaloming, based on an autocorrected text... it's a long story and you had to be there.

Later in the week, my sister from another mister messages me to say she will be in town from the Ottawa area for a twenty fifth elementary school reunion.

Exqueeze me? Baking Powder? I've never heard of an elementary school reunion before.

It makes sense, though, having come from a small town. We all formed very close relationships with the kids we attended school from kindergarten to grade eight. We wet our pants together in the school yard. We knew who was the pukey kid. We knew which girl got her period for the first time at recess. We knew the kid who got sent to the principal's office for saying "boner" in Mrs. Haight's class. It stands to reason that Sophiasburgh Central School, who's graduating class was probably less than twenty kids, have stayed close.

Regardless, I didn't go to Sophiasburgh. My sister's husband did. That was my only excuse for attending and I was determined to drag Kairn along with me. We are The Reunion Crashers.

It was potluck - I made chocolate and peanut butter bars; Kairn made lemon squares. I didn't think we would know anyone there, but we actually went to high school with almost everyone. I got to see an old friend with whom I spent most of my senior year at Prince Edward Collegiate playing euchre. His wife also went to high school with us, but I didn't remember her. A lovely girl and I hope we get the chance to see each other at the 25th high school reunion. Ten minutes after we arrived at the reunion, "Joanna" convinced me we should do a shot of something.

"They don't have any tequila," she said apologetically. She was disappointed that they didn't have white wine or coolers either. I wondered what she could possibly have in mind for shots. Clearly, there would not be any "Sex on the Beach" or "Polar Bears" at the Demorestville Hall. "We will have to do shots of vodka," she declared.

Exsqueeze me? Baking Powder? I've never heard of doing straight vodka shots. Actually, that's a lie. I was a bartender at a Russian wedding about two years ago where they requested vodka to be put in the freezer for shots. I thought they were fucking cuckoo at the time.

But, what the hell? It's a lovely June evening in the middle of nowhere with about 15 people I never spoke to in high school. A shot of vodka should get this party started. It was surprisingly smooth and I think I may have found my new beverage of choice. My cheeks instantly went a shade of pink you might see on a package of Katy Perry perfume.

Next thing I know,they bring out an arm wrestling bench. Because no 25th elementary school reunion is complete without an arm wrestling match and shots of Smirnoff. Kairn wanted to take me on. I told her she did not want a piece of this. I was going to beat her down the way I beat her down in a dance off competition with Just Dance for Wii. I may not be able to shake my Bootylicious enough for Beyonce's Crazy in Love, but I OWN Tina Turner's Proud Mary. Big wheels keep on turning! PROUD Mary keep on burnin'! Rollin' (Rollin') Rollin' (Rollin') Rollin' on a river!

Kairn beating me

She slammed my wrist down in less than ten seconds. The second round, I'm pretty sure she let me win so I wouldn't pout and go home.
We didn't want to arm wrestle though. We wanted to "Shalom". So, we left Demorestville around 11 p.m. to see what was happening at the famous Hayloft.

I may have mentioned the Hayloft in previous blogs... I don't know. I would be surprised if I did, because I am AT LEAST ten years too old to be going to such a place. It is an old barn in the southwest end of the County about 15 minutes from civilization. There is always a cover charge and it is almost always packed with locals and campers from Sandbanks Provincial Park. In this instance, it was packed with kids whose diapers I may or may not have changed about 20 years ago.

Not to be deterred by the painfully obvious generation gap, we sat in the mow and watched the young people have fun. Then, Fatman Scoop came on: "You got a  hundred dollar bill, put ya hands up/ You got a fifty dollar bill, put ya hands up!" These kids were ten when that song came out! I needed to show them how to get down with the Fatman! Nay! It was my civic duty, as a quadregenarian to break it down for these fellas. 

I sucked in my belly for all I was worth and made my way to the dance floor with my hands in the air. I was shakin' my ass (Can I get a woot woot!) and raising the roof, settin' the place on fire! Those young folks didn't know what hit them. Actually, I'm pretty sure they were wondering what in the actual fuck granny was doing bent over on the dance floor and should they call an ambulance before it was too late. 

All I could think about was how short some of the shorts were! Those Daisy Dukes are cut so high you can see their little bottoms hanging out! And, one girl was wearing a shirt cut so low the only thing covered was her nipples and no way she was wearing a bra. I contemplated giving her a motor boat. I haven't seen that much glorious pendulum swinging since the Dykes on Bikes march at Pride Parade in 2011!

The young men, on the other hand, are either too hipster or too Deliverance. Too many geeky, black-framed glasses and too many bushy beards for my taste. Give me a middle-aged, clean-shaven guy in running shoes with white hair at his temples and his white t-shirt tucked into his boot-cut jeans any day.

On that note, The Outhere Brothers "Don't Stop (Wiggle Wiggle)" from 1995 started playing. I loved that song when I was 22. "Put yo ass on my face" and all that. Great song! But, I was uncomfortable thinking about those young people dancing to that song. They were so... young. So, impressionable and vulnerable. Just babies, really. I felt like grabbing extra beach towels from the back of my car and covering them all up and sending them home to their mothers. 

Then, Karen said, "All I can smell is bug spray." Which brought me back to earth and I told her it was time for us to go home. I had enough of feeling old and I was ready for bed. Yet, here I am at quarter after 3 on a Saturday morning, thinking about taking another shot of vodka.

Hm. (Another inside joke)