Eau du Egg Salad

I am having an affair. No, I am not secretly rendezvousing with men (or women) in dark alleys under the guise of a new-found appreciation of Sobey’s thoughtful 24 hour a day hours of operation, nor am or arranging clandestine out of town meetings claiming my work hours are crazy… my torrid love affair is with sandwiches. I love pink ham, white chicken and brown beef. I am dizzy for pumpernickel and swoon for sourdough. I get giddy over the grill marks in a well pressed panini, weak in the knees for Italian sausage on a bun and my fire burns hot for B.L.T’s. I fear I may be sandwich ho[agie].

The fervent enthusiasm I have for all types sandwiches begs the question, ‘what constitutes a healthy relationship with food’? I was flicking around the channels the other day and I stumbled on a movie on the W network called ‘The Prince and Me’. Admittedly, It was a terrible movie despite the saucy, yet unrecognizable, European accent on the leading man. My family was heckling me about it, so I refused to change the channel on principle. (Jason watches hunting shows where the participants spend hours whispering about gorgeous deer flanks whilst hiding in the bushes and I have seen more episodes of Wizards of Waverly Place where Alex accidentally messes up a spell, than should be legally permitted). I digress. The point I am making is that the heroine of the movie was proposed to over a giant meat slicer. Her and her ‘prince’ met in a deli. My eyes started to sting and I struggled to hold back tears. Truth. The gesture of one’s true love asking for the promise of eternal love and companionship over shaved deli meat was truly romantic. Needless to say the heckling escalated from my family, but it also caused me to take pause and question the reasons for my intense sandwich-enchantment.

Some people report such food love over chocolate, cheese, pizza, or in Jason’s case… peanut butter – smooth not crunchy- and while I can certainly see the merit and potential for diversity with those foods, for me, none packs a lunch punch quite like a well layered Dagwood, a Reuben melted to perfection or a crunchy Monte Cristo with a dill pickle on the side. I wonder will just one lifetime be adequate to sample the infinite possible combinations of meat, cheese, condiments and bread?

The relationship people have with food is a complex one; as countless self-help books, support groups, gyms and diet plans can attest to. I wonder what the foods we adore really say about us as individuals? Are the people who love cheese more likely to have a constipated outlook on life? Are the chocolate aficionados described as sweet people by their friends? Are the pizza fans better negotiators, in other words, do they successfully barter with store vendors to buy the first item and then buy another identical item for only five-bucks, including delivery?

Like I mentioned, I love all sandwiches. If interpreted as a concept opposed to a literal translation, the seventh commandment states clearly: Thou shall NOT commit adultery. Does my inability to commit to just one sandwich make me a mid-day-small-mealed Jezebel… akin to Old Testament Bathsheba or even worse, in the same category as a modern day Angelia Jolie (who in my humble opinion, could use a sandwich or two)? Is my non-nuclear family background to blame? Is it a freaky genetic flaw? Are my children doomed to live a life of commitment food-bia too? I think I may have to ponder this thought over a shitake mushroom and roasted red pepper… sandwich.

Just a couple of Silver Spoons

The summer of ’84 I was almost ten years old. Being ten was a big deal: double digit time… and with double digits came rewards. Upon turning ten, anyone who was anyone had immediate rights wear a bra to school, leave their high-top Cougar boot shoelaces untied and owned their very own bottle of Aquanet hair spray. In other words, turning double-digits was practically adulthood. As an almost-adult I felt that it was high time to start thinking about my future and being the planner that I am, I recognized the necessity to seek out some solid inspiration and guidance. I chose to follow the lyrical path clearly laid out by mighty 80’s rock-legend, Cyndi Lauper. Cyndi sang of ‘girls having fun’ and ‘she-bopping’ through life. In addition to these key messages, the chorus to ‘Time After Time’ was a shining light firmly guiding me in the direction of my destined bridegroom… Ricky Stratton Schroder, Silver Spoons god.

Before heading off to Doe Lake girl-guide camp, I drafted a love letter to Ricky declaring my desire to sit on his tiny train and ride around in big cirlcles through the living room of his Silver Spoon manison for all eternity. I also shared with Ricky my promise to take seriously my commitment to uphold the responsibilities that would inevitably accompany becoming heiress to the Eddie Toys empire. I included my grade four school picture and mailed my letter, convinced that for all intents and purposes I was basically engaged. It all seemed very sane and reasonable at the time, especially when fuelled by Cyndi’s shrewd words of encouragement.

My whole two weeks at camp I was on cloud-nine. I crafted up a storm, made mock toilet paper rolls for my blue bucket hat, constructed perfectly balanced kindling tee-pees, emphatically thanked Johhny Appleseed before every meal, patiently waited my turn to jump into the campfire Kum-Ba-Ah rounds and learned how to tie the best reef knot in my troop; all skills which would of course help me be a good wife to my betrothed. I was so happy in the knowledge that when I returned home, plane tickets to Hollywood would be waiting for me from Ricky, sent of course by the ever efficient and considerate, Kate Summers. I even practiced the speech I would recite to my parents where I would inform them I would be starting my grade five year as Mrs. Ricky Stratton Schroder.

There are defining times in each of our lives and for me, the summer of 1984 was one of those times. Cyndi knew what she was talking about more than I ever could have understood twenty-six years ago. I now know the true meaning of Cyndi’s songs, ‘Time After Time’, ‘ ‘She Bop’ and ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’. They talk about the struggles of true love, the benefits of self-love and the necessity of remembering not to take yourself too seriously. Turned out Cyndi was sending me a message after all, but it had nothing to do with Ricky Schroder. It’s likely a good thing my plane tickets got lost in the mail.

Horn of Plenty

Thanksgiving. So, like other holidays where we are reminded to be nice to one another, Thanksgiving is a day to take pause and be thankful for all the things in our lives that enrich us; a celebration honouring our bountiful harvests of food and love. Thanksgiving is a regular ‘cornucopia’ of joy. Uh-huh.

If you have been reading my blog, you will know that I am not much of a domestic diva. I don’t cook and my housekeeping skills are a little on the lack-lustre side. I rather suck at making small-talk and even with my best foot forward I often 'fall down' when it comes to exhibiting appropriate facial expressions and tone of voice. For me, Thanksgiving only serves to highlight my gross inadequacies as it pertains to the stereotypical duties of June Cleaver style wifery.

Dinner on Sunday is at my house for my parents, in-laws, Jason and our five children. Jason is cooking the turkey and the vegetables. My job is stuffing. After much consulting with my friends, I have decided on a recipe which does not require any measuring of ingredients. Like the pilgrim’s of generations long ago, I hunted out the firmest bunch of celery and gathered up the multiple loaves of bread which will be required to feed my eleven hungry guests. To me, the fact that I hunted and gathered at Sobey’s opposed to harvesting foodstuffs from fields ploughed by my own hands and flock of oxen (do oxen live in flocks?), is totally moot.

As a loyal follower of King Burger I struggle with understanding the feeling of peaceful bliss which many people report having upon providing nourishment to their families. I am hopeful that my success in whipping up a delicious yeasty mixture of traditional stuffing, followed up with the subsequent jamming of said mixture up the rump-end of a gigantic piece of dead poultry, will aid in my understanding of this joy which up to this point in my life, has alluded me. I will let you know how I make out.

Wishing you all a bountiful horn of plenty today and every day of the year.

Fonzie vs. Forks... giddyup.

I have nickname envy. Looking back, every male gendered person I have ever known has a nickname (or streetname). A month ago, my sixteen year old son, James, moved back home after spending a year in Alberta, where he lived with his dad. Over the course of the last month, I have come to realize that nicknames are not just reserved for the exploited victims showcased on ‘The First 48’, super sport-stars (The Great One, Pele, The Babe, Mean Greene…) and oxy-moron type aliases (i.e. ‘Slim’ for a fella with a 52” waist). James, has socialized with ‘Try-Hard’ and ‘Strike-Out’ named because of their inability to flirt effectively with girls, ‘Stringer’ who plays the guitar and ‘Blister Pack’ because of an unfortunate freakish below the belt type problem. James seems to have entirely dropped his first name and simply goes by, ‘Deeker’.

What is the common thread that ties generations of men together through ridiculous monikers and slang designations? And what about these terms gives men carte blanche to tell the truth to one another without being perceived as offensive or brash? Why have women been expected to reach out in an embrace whilst raising their voices 2 octaves exclaiming, “Ohhhh… Nancy, the house smells fabulous and you look great! Have you been working out?” while our male partners (and presumably equals) punch each other in the arm cursing, ‘Hey, Hammer you ever going to mow your lawn you fat, lazy bastard?” Why do men get to have cool nicknames and use blue language when women need to lie about the perceived sizes of one another’s back-sides and fake heightened decibel-level excitement over fancy new matching square salad and dinner plates? It just does not seem fair.

My nine year old daughter, Meg, was recently invited to a birthday party for a boy she does not particularly like. When given the option to attend the party or not, Meg decided to go… however the homemade card she wrote contained the following text, “Yoon-ster: Cake is my favourite thing in the world. MMMMM… yummy cake. Hope you don’t hate all your presents.” When I read the card, I (supportively) asked Meg why she wrote what she did… her response was simple: “I don’t want to lie about why I decided to go to his party. That would be rude and lying is wrong.” When I asked about the ‘Yoon-ster’ salutation, she told me, “That’s what I call him”. I believe her wide-open truth about her not-so- sweet reasons for wanting to go to his party was directly related to her willingness to use his nickname in the address.

More than once, I have been accused of being less than courteous in the way I talk to people. Rarely, is what I say intended to be disagreeable and typically its women who have the tendency to misinterpret my tone or words as abrasive. I don’t consider myself a nasty person, I simply lack the ability to employ the widely accepted female ‘sugar coat’ approach to conversation.

James has inspired me to look at the cause of this unrest and in my view, it all boils down to nickname use. I wonder if my co-workers would tell me what they really think if I start calling them by nicknames. For example: “Hey, Spinster (named for her self- described inability to find a husband) do you have an extra stapler? I can’t find mine.” Instead of the regular response of, ‘sure I have an extra stapler, I don’t mind a bit’, I wonder if the use of a seemingly offensive nickname (Spinster) would garner the response she would likely prefer to offer, “Yes Slapdash, I do have a stapler but you can’t have it. Tidy your pigpen office and find yours.” In this instance, Spinster would be correct; my office is messy and it’s not her responsibility to enable my unkempt habits. Conclusion: insulting nickname tags are somehow disarming. The seemingly thoughtless manner in which men have tossed around offensive adjectives, are in fact a deliberate olive branch offering peace and opening the proverbial door to invite honesty and truthful dialogue under the guise of cheeky banter.

No longer should women have to site P.M.S. as the only accepted reason to be clear in their feelings. Men will no longer check their watches or Blackberry calendars to determine the date when their wives and girlfriends ask them if they have really been watching SPIKE TV all day instead of changing the oil in the car like they promised… because the ‘ask’ will be prefaced with a nickname and therefore will be determined to be totally unrelated to lady-exclusive hormones. “Hey Homer, you going to get your ass off the couch and change my oil, or what?”

I have girl parts and I deserve a nickname. After carefully considering my interests and personality, I think an appropriate name for me is ‘Forks’. I am quite fond of saying ‘I’d rather jam a fork in eye than [go to a baby shower] , I shamelessly read (and loved) the Twilight saga which was set in a town called Forks, and if I ever had a breakfast diner I’d call it, ‘The Fork n’ Spoon’. Please consider this blog formal notice of my desire to be referred to as ‘Forks’ from this moment on. Thank-you.

Unrest of the '& Guest'

Last week, using the Happy Aquarium application on Facebook, Jason sent me a message in a bottle indicating that I have a very dirty tank. It was ended with a winking semi-colon/left bracket ;). As a result of his lame-o, albeit sweet attempt at flirty innuendo I fell in love with him all over again. As you may have surmised, I am not much of a traditional romantic and most things floral or Hallmarkie are typically met by me with a snicker or a guffaw; its not that I am opposed to romance as a concept, I just have an issue when it comes in the form of a rhyming haiku or overpriced foliage.

That being said, as you know, the season for weddings is currently in full swing. Keeping in line with my deep-rooted sardonic attitude towards all things requiring an up-do, I find myself thinking not about the momentary heartfelt proclamations of everlasting love and devotion wildly buzzing around like irritating mosquitoes, but about the ‘& Guest’, (i.e. Mr. Gerrard Butler & Guest are cordially invited… ) who attend the nuptials.

How does someone find themselves in the unique position of becoming an ‘& Guest’ you ask? Typically it happens close to the beginning of a relationship, or else you would have your actual name on the invite. Couples have approached the stage where the woman is pretty sure he will call after work but have not yet entered the phase where she has stopped automatically assuming he wants to break up with her if he forgets or is a bit late with the dialling. In my experience, the conversation where the invitation is extended to become an ‘& Guest’ has generally gone something like this:

Him: Oh hey, I have a wedding next weekend. You wanna come with me?
You: What kind of wedding?
Him: The kind where people get married
You: Will I know anyone?
Him: How do I know who you know?
You: What are you wearing?
Him: Pants
You: What should I wear?
Him: um, something that makes you look hot!
You: Helpful. Thanks.

Now, as most women know being an ‘& Guest’ at a wedding is a double edged sword; a colossal pain in the ass but also an opportunity like no other to show off your unique brand of sparkle. Where else in the world do you get to stuff yourself into a pair of Spanx, toss on your best poly-blend dress and sashay your way into the hearts of your new b.f.’s friends and family in one foul swoop, proving how much (prettier) more compatible you are with him than his last girlfriend? Being an ‘& Guest’ is similar to a job interview but with whimsical mini bubbles, garish floral bouquets and horse drawn carriages decorated in white tulle… and a lot of automobile honking. Weddings, unlike job interviews, are typically very horny affairs.

Besides looking like a tastefully dressed vamp, there are still a few key elements to be aware of in order to fitfully survive the ordeal of attending wedding as an ‘& Guest’. More importantly than feigning the appropriate amount of swooning over the giant back-side bow on the bride’s poufy gown or looking acceptably moved for the customary ‘first kiss’ an ‘& Guest’ must also be able to pull out all the stops at the reception. .

Successful ‘& Guests’ can never look up and wave to the ceiling when the groom sends out a weepy shout-out to recently deceased Aunt Enid who is with everyone ‘in spirit tonight’. They cannot look around for the hidden Candid Camera film crew when the brother of the bride threatens the groom to ‘be nice to his sister or else’ and a proper ‘& Guest’ must not, under any circumstances, drink more than 2 glasses of wine during speeches. This rule is especially important to remember during the Maid of Honour address where there is a lot sobbing as she nostalgically recounts every waking minute of her relationship with the beautiful bride, noting several times that they have ‘been through so much together’. (Once during a particularly difficult personal ‘& Guest’ experience the Maid of Honour’s speech started out like this, “ My relationship with [the bride] has been like a book. Chapter one: Kindergarten…”. By Chapter 8: High School Prom, the taffeta-clad speaker was so overcome with emotion by her recount of childhood inspired memories that she was weeping inconsolably and wiping snot from her nose. I, on the other hand, was overwhelmed by the idiocy and sloshed on the freebie homemade wine that was sitting unguarded on the table. I found myself laughing like a hyena and had to leave the room before I peed myself. Chapter nine: Accidentally drunk ‘& Guest’!)

An ‘& Guest’ must be the best soberish, small-talking, Bird-Dancing, bouquet catching, glass-clinking, stranger wedding speech enduring dynamo in the room. A pretty hefty responsibility I’d say.

Looking ahead, I think a section in the planning guides and the overpriced magazines should be devoted exclusively to ensuring the ‘& Guest’ needs are taken care of. Perhaps a nice generic Calvin and Hobbes or Far Side comic could be tossed into the photo montage slideshow, maybe at the designated seating for the ‘& Guest’ there could be a word search or Sudoku puzzle book to keep them amused or at the very least, recognition in the wedding program would be nice. Something along the lines of this: ‘Thank-you to all the ‘& Guests’ for attending our wedding today. We tried to put cheap things on the registry, that we will likely just return, so you could easily meet social etiquette standards without breaking the bank. We hope you enjoy your chicken dinner.”

I think my aversion to weddings stems from my belief that it’s not really possible to pre-plan the best day of your life. Is it possible though to set yourself up to be the best damn ‘& Guest’ in the history of weddings; weddings can be your day to shine. Everyone is looking at you, talking about you and evaluating the kind of mate you will be for your partner. When you look weddings this way, the day really is all about you and your aforementioned sparkle. Well, kinda.

No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service

The other day I was having lunch with my dear friend Elane. Over our tomato soup and toast, she recounted a particularly disturbing incident that recently took place at her house. Living on a busy downtown street, it’s not uncommon for Elane to have numerous ‘cold-call’ door-to-door business solicitations. Just like a dozen times before she heard a knock and noticing a work truck in her laneway, opened her door expecting to find someone with a flyer or buck-note standing humbly on the porch. In this instance however, she was not greeted by a modest entrepreneur, but rather a found herself staring into the naked sunburned Sasquatch-like chest of a wannabe roofer asking to be hired to re-shingle her garage.

Now, I don’t profess to be specialist on the cooling effects of nakedness versus those of say for example, wearing a cotton or dry-wick tank-top but I can’t imagine that the temperature difference would fully explain the extreme inflation in chronic seasonal male upper-body nudi-ness which seems to have taken over not only our parks and bike trails but has infiltrated into our business community as well. Something much more sinister than the sticky atmospheric condition is turning up the heat in our metropolitan centers; what we have on our hands is a full-blown pandemic of mipples, moobs and man-cans.

Before you jump to conclusions about my overall view of nakedness, please know that I firmly believe in promotion of positive body image to our children. I support people’s rights to proudly hold Naturist values and I would be a liar with[out] my pants on fire if I said that I watched ‘Twilight New Moon’ just because of the top-notch, Oscar caliber acting capabilities of Taylor Lautner and his Native band of vampire slaying werewolves. I am no prude, (I think I fall somewhere in the middle between Tootie from the ‘Facts of Life’ and Blanche Deveraux from the ‘Golden Girls’) but I do firmly believe there is a time and place for everything and that the occasion for undress is not necessarily when one is riding a bicycle, strolling in the park or asking for a job.

I have given this disturbing shirtless trend some thought and the only reasonable explanation I can come up with is that men have somehow received highly classified, top-secret instructions (perhaps from the Masons??) indicating that the time has finally come for some hard-core payback. In simpler terms, men are serving up some not-so-subtle comeuppance for the fashion blunders which women have been subjecting them to for decades. Namely: camel toe (or moose knuckle in extreme cases), nowhere-to-hide shiny spandex, low-rider back-end jean cleavage, extraneous worship and mimicking of Beth Chapman, and of course, the current problem sweeping the nation best known as ‘muffin top’. Quid pro quo ladies. In (be)hindsight, I suppose we should have seen this coming.

Men, I acknowledge you have given us fair warning of this skin themed uprising. You have consistently shown us women that you have the moxie to answer our unspoken challenges with comparable flair. I admit, our choices have been like one giant ‘double dog dare’ and you have risen to the occasion every time, counter striking with enthusiasm and nervy gusto. The jelly shoe fiasco of 1983 was matched with Don Johnson mesh loafers (toe cleavage is not just for girls), Sue Ellen Ewing inspired giant shoulder pants were handily trumped with MC Hammer pants (demonstrating bigger is not necessarily better) and two-inch airbushed fingernails were nicely responded to with an influx of wallets on chains (teasing us with the bait all the while knowing we were rendered dexterously incapable of actually being able to access the actual money inside the wallet). I get it, I really do… and I’m sorry for our disgraceful attire judgment, but c’mon… enough is enough; things are obviously now wildly out of hand. Get dressed so we can work this out like rational people.

I wholeheartedly agree that accountability must be taken for our misguided hellcat fashion exploits. Men have indeed suffered through some real doozies both current day and in the past. However, as inexcusable as these female ‘humped and lumped’ fashion faux-pas are, they do have one element in common… fabric. This absentee cloth element is what has caused the necessity for me to address the pink mipples elephant in the room, in sincere hopes of calling a truce.

How ‘bout this…. on behalf of women everywhere, we concede you as the pack leaders, alpha males and dominant gender…. You win. You are right, we women are wrong. Thank you for demonstrating so clearly the error of our ways. (I’m sorry Gloria Stienman).

Final score: Masons (?) - 1, Women - 0. Men are superior players, proving to womankind that without a doubt the glorified showing-off of body parts is not desirable, or sexy… it makes you appear desperate and laughable. I assure you, your selfless and cleverly executed display of nakedness has brought this fact to our attention loud and clear. Now that we have conceded your point and named you victorious, please for the love of all things evolved, I beg you… put a shirt on! Not only have we learned our lesson but also, and I say this in the kindest way possible, the townsfolk have seen enough of the moobzilla frenzy to last a lifetime.

Adopt-a-Ninja

The day I turned 14 I got my first job. I was hired as the friendly face at Chicken n’ Choices located in the mall food court. For $4.00/hr, my job was to hand slice the potatoes into French fries, wash the greasy rotisserie trays and run the cash register. To say the least, it was not my ideal job. I spent many shifts asking the universe (I thought perhaps there was a celestial department which oversaw all take-out food kiosks), to send someone to my counter and instead of politely ordering extra gravy, growl at me and say with a sneer, ‘This is a stick-up. Gimme your breasts. Throw in a few thighs and fresh buns too”. Perhaps for some people, being held up would be frightening, but for me, 14 year-old polyester uniform pant wearing fast-food capon queen, a stick-up was the only opportunity I could fathom which would allow me to awaken and unleash my normally dormant inner ninja.

The way I saw it unfolding was simple: after delivering my initial soul-slashing verbal barb (quite possibly the part I practiced most in my head), I would with lightening speed pull out from under the counter the large metal spatula I kept there for this very purpose. In a split second, I would leap the counter with an unimaginable display of athletic prowess, raise my arms above my head swinging the spatula like a Samurai sword and attack with vigor, thus thwarting the robbery attempt and apprehending the offending scallywag. The food court patrons would erupt into ear thundering applause and the staff at the neighbouring A&W would be so wooed by my surprising display they would promise me a lifetime supply of free teen burgers and root-beer floats. Unfortunately for me I was never involved in an attempted poultry caper. As a result of not being mixed-up in this particular crime I continued to have an unresolved yearning to be a key contributor in some Bruce Lee style vigilante justice.

I was eventually fired from Chicken n’ Choices. I was told because of my ‘inability to work effectively in a team environment’, demonstrated through my ‘insensitivity and frequent use of inappropriate sarcasm in the workplace’ (opposed to appropriate use of sarcasm, I suppose) that dealing directly with the public was not really a good fit for me. I wasn’t too broken hearted about the dismissal but I was a bit concerned about how I was going to continue to fund my Treetorn shoe, Vaurnet t-shirt and Swatch Watch addictions. Luckily I was hired quickly. Woolco signed me up as a cashier and gave me a 10 cent an hour raise. Ahhh, Woolco, $4.10/hr, much cooler than the food court and as far as I could figure, much more likely to be targeted by bandits looking to ‘score’. Perfect.

My messages to the universe were finally heard during the Christmas season of 1989. Amidst hustle and bustle of shoppers trying to find Hulk Hogan action figures and Nintendo Donkey Kong was a fella who decided to give his family a Yuletide to remember. He wanted to give everyone he loved a very special gift… except he wasn’t paying with a personalized cheque or a visa, he was in fact a thieving bastard. I’m not talking the regular type of brazen thief who pockets a Mars bar or the occasional pack of razor blades every now and again, nope, this particular guy hired a cab and instructed him to wait out front. The cabbie remained on stand-by while the thief filled the trunk with shoplifted VCR’s. In and out of the store he went, carrying the video recorders 2 at a time. By the 4th round of loading the cab driver was suspicious. Leaving his cab unattended, he entered the store, sized up the front -end staff and approached me. (I assume he ‘sized’ us up, I mean nobody else was giving off the obvious ninja vibe like I was). He told me of his suspicions and I hastily took action. I left my customer standing at my checkout, paged security to the front end and asked the driver to point him out to me. I then told the driver to hide behind the hanger rack. After ‘making’ the criminal I approached him and asked for the receipt for the 2 VCR’s he was leaving the store with. When he failed to produce said receipt, I told him he would have to leave his electronics. He put them down in an empty cart and tried to leave… but I stepped in front of him, intentionally dropping and then stooping to pick up my trusty impaling weapon of doom, which was previously inconspicuously disguised as a pen and attached to the pink lanyard I wore around my neck. In my flawless execution of this manoeuvre I effectively blocked his exit with my ass, rendering it impossible for him to comfortably move past me. As I stood, I held my weapon up to him allowing him to make the choice to try and make a run for it or suffer the obvious daunting consequences of my inevitable assail. He hesitated, conceding me the winner in our cerebral showdown and recognizing me for what I was… a plucky, adolescent spiral permed ninja who should not be tangled with. Security arrived and he was eventually arrested. All my mental training had not been in vain. As a reward, I was given an extra 10 minutes on my break, but more importantly, I realized a dream come true. I was Leona Lee… Woolco cashier/ crazy-tough crime conquering ninja.

I’m not an advocate in any way, shape or form, for violence or lawlessness. I do however hold the opinion that the mere act of believing in ourselves provides us with the opportunity to choose to act when we know we should, instead of simply watching on the sidelines only to re-play the scene in our heads over and over again where we become the superhero instead of remaining the wallflower. We must stop simply wishing we had the wherewithal to react in a more lion-hearted manner and we must begin roaring. Today is the day we all start to believe in our inner paladin. Today we stop denying our right to gladiator status; we will quietly embrace it, welcome it. Walk into your kitchens and grab a spatula. Open your office supply cupboard and grab a pen. Put these things in your pockets or purses. You must be ready. You never know when you may just be lucky enough to be standing on a street corner when the old lady next to you gets her pleather pocketbook stolen by a band of wild gypsies. It will be your turn to choose what to be… lamb or lion. Believe in your sleeping Chuck Norris. Go forward brave ninja warrior, strength be with you.

Sock Harlot

I am a hoarder. I don’t hoard Precious Moments figurines or other knick knacks. I don't have clear rubbermaid containers filled with fancy scalloped scissors or other scrapbooking supplies. I don't have copious amounts of used gift bags from Christmases and birthday's gone by. I am not a slave to the home party expectations and therefore am not overrun by tealights and scented candles; I do not have a designated 'candle drawer'. I don’t keep things because they are ‘too good to throw out’ or because maybe one day I really will find the time to bust out those blue neoprene ankle weights and the ol' thigh master so I can finally get those Suzanne Sommers legs I've always wanted. I have never been at risk of losing custody of my children because of my hoarding and I don’t expect that my hoarding habit will ever make it to TV, but I am a hoarder nonetheless; a hoarder of socks. If you come into my house, you will find socks. Socks on the lawn, socks in the couch cushions, socks in the buffet drawers, socks in the garage… here a sock, there a sock, everywhere a sock-sock. Jason says the socks are taking over. At any given time I have multiple decorative wicker baskets filled with wayward socks, piles of companionless socks laying randomly around the house and bags of solitary socks waiting patiently to be re-united with their mates.

Now I am not a sentimental gal. I am not wooed by the promise of kindred spirits or moved to tears by idealistic corny heartbreak induced 'Notebook' style death. I am not really a believer in Valentines day or anniversary celebrations that include the extended fam,( who you didn’t really want at your wedding in the first place), singing ‘Happy Anniversary’ in unison, while you eye up the 2 litre bottle of Strawberry Zinfandel wondering if it’s rude to reach across the cake to fill up your glass before they are done … but I do believe in the promise of socks. It is this belief that sets my sock hoarding apart from the more common household problem of simply having 'mis-matched' socks.

The thing about socks is that they are unquestionably designed to be in pairs. Their sole (no pun intended) purpose is to function as a couple. If I’m honest, some of the socks in my collection have been hanging around since highschool. I have toted the same socks around since leaving home at age 17 and have continuously added to the pile over time…. Almost 20 years of socks. Seriously.

Now, I fully understand that most of these socks I will never find the mate to, but I keep them just the same. Even those socks that have holes in them. They are not less worthy of a partnership just because they are a little haggard. They are still valued for their purpose and so I hold onto those ones until I locate the mate, fold them together and send them to landfill heaven as a couple. I feel like discarding the single sock is like giving up on it as if it doesn’t matter that it came in a pair; I can not ignore that it was designed specifically to co-exist in a partnership. I realize that my socks find solace and support in one another, heaped together like sockular misfits, but simply hanging around with other unfettered socks is not the solution. They deserve better than that.

About once a month, I spend time trying to find pairs. Often, I will get a pile of 20- 30 matches. I get so excited and happily put them in my family members drawers. My kids are delighted when they wake up to a surprise, discovering that they have exciting sock options for that day. It’s really a win-win for everyone involved. The other day I found my daughter quietly sitting with a basket, pairing up socks. It was a very proud moment for me.

I suppose the emotional element of this hoarding issue filters over to other elements in my life. I will not leave one egg in the carton because I believe it will be sad and lonely and may crack (yes, pun intended) under the pressure of maintaining the entire carton independently. Matronly unworn flannel button-up pyjama tops rest neatly in my drawers, waiting for the cozy bottoms to wear out so they can get discarded together. The child who gets the extra thick grilled cheese knows that I put two slices on it as not to send the last remaining plastic wrapped Kraft single back to the crisper alone only to fall into in a deep depression fuelled by unjustified feelings of inadequate melting capabilities. I will not be responsible for suicidal cheese.

I would however like to point out that I have been to lots of other houses where Tupperware waits lidless at the back of cupboards and mittens and gloves from winter’s past rest forever matchless in boxes marked ‘WINTER WEAR’ written in black Sharpie marker. I have personal eyewitness proof of Ziploc baggies filled with 11 decorative shower curtain hooks because the 12th is ‘sure to turn up somewhere’ . I have seen closets spilling over with decades worth of empty paint cans kept in case the colour codes are ever required for touch up references. I am not the only hoarder on the block but I will be the first to stand up and proudly announce, “my name is Leona and I am a hoarder”. What are you waiting for?

Curve it up

I've been to a few gyms in my life. I sign up for the obligatory year contract, and pay the obscene monthly fee, convinced that 'this time' will be different; that the thought of working out with women who apply make-up before leaving the change room won't make me want to hurl my mis-matched tube socks at them, that the act of adjusting the weights after watching some beastly steroid freak haphazardly wipe his sweat from the seat won't make me throw up in my mouth and and that I won't look around the room hopeful that nobody is watching me when I set the stationary bike timer for 15 minutes but get bored (and winded) after only 4 minutes, hit quit and stumble off with wobbly legs. Not surprisingly I grow weary of this gym-charade and come to terms with the fact that I have once again told myself the fat-girl 'work out lie'. As a result of the lie, I inevitably stop going after the first two weeks and my personalized ID card gets lost in the abyss of my wallet. Occasionally I will find the ID whilst looking for my Shoppers Optimum or Club Z card, get pissy about the fees and my inability to get over myself, and cheer myself up by eating a Whopper with cheese. Mmmm.... Whoppers.

Clearly, I found myself in a conundrum; no time or desire to go to a gym yet too cardio-impaired to walk up a flight of stairs without needing a nap. What to do, what to do???? Well, lemme tell ya... I went to Curves. This women only facility has various hydraulic machines to target specific 'problem areas' and provides a bouncy little 'recovery board' allowing me to catch my breath between equipment changes. Sometimes, just to mix things up, there are recovery board activities where you can try and toss rings over plastic sticks and lob beanbags into barrels. I was assured all I need is 30 minutes, three times a week. I don't have to count reps or remember weights or adjust seats or really even pay attention because a friendly robot voice tells me every 30 seconds to "Change Stations Now". Perfect exercise for an attention deficit disorder gal like myself. I went for my tour and was greeted with a rock and roll version of the hokey pokey, witnessed a lanky Amish woman on the stairmaster (complete with long pocket-less skirt and a plastic white hair-bun holder that looked like an upside down permanent coffee filter) and fell in love with Edith, a senior on the chest press machine, sporting a fresh small roller perm and wearing skin coloured support hose with taupe Naturalizer 3 strap sandals. I knew immediately that I had finally found a place where I could work out in and feel like a rockstar. So I joined.

At my first work-out, I was enthusiastically met by Maureen, my 72 year old personal trainer. She was very motivating, explaining to me how on various days of the week the gym puts on theme days (such as the beanbag toss activity as explained above) to encourage members to think outside the box. Maureen assured me she gets a wonderful workout despite her chronic asthma and sciatica flare-ups and that her mall-walking friends really enjoy the friendly atmosphere. I was very inspired by her story and wanted to share this workout bonanza with my friends. I tried to convince two of my girlfriends Curves is the ticket to finally conquering our workout demons. I wanted them to share the joy so that together we could reach our goals of vanquishing our tricep flab. Unfortunately my eagerness was countered with considerable resistance and laughter (you know who you are). By some magical stroke of good fortune, a co-worker of mine eagerly agreed to join me on my journey to fitness utopia. I'm not sure if it was because of my assurances that we would be, hands down, the hottest chicks in the place or if she really thought using our lunch hour to preform jumping jacks between the timed stations was a great way to get fit, but honestly her reasons don't matter because regardless of her motivations, we are now both faithful Curvers. Marcia, you look great by the way. Very firm.

Marcia and I have almost completed enough work-outs to gain 'Curve Smart' status. This elite status allows us to wear a spirally plastic wristband with a personalized bar code (I know, it's almost too much to handle!). As we change from machine to machine will will insert a card into each of the machines where our progress is tracked. I am very excited about this.

So Marcia, take note: fun time is over. We are about to be 'tracked' and you know what that means... competition. Practice up on the Wii... bust out your wacky recovery board station routines and your wild hop-scotch carpet moves. Get ready to do some head and shoulder knees and toes battle. Only room on the recovery board stage for one; only one of us can hold title of Curve-a-licious top-dog. Please accept this blog as an official curve-off challenge. Tell your friends, tell Edith, tell Maureen and tell all the Amish coffee-filter wearin' be-otches to tighten their sandal straps. Game on!

Get a Clue

I wanted a phone that I didn't have to remember to charge so I went to the Value Village and bought myself a corded phone; a reliable non caller ID, non-portable, pulse or tone option old-school Alexander G Bellaphone. The sticker on the bottom of the phone indicates it is a Bell model date stamped January 1987 and every time I see it, I feel like I am a detective in the game of Clue... I can totally picture this phone being used by Mrs. Peacock in the study before she is bludgeoned to death, with a wrench, at the hands of vicious Professor Plum. This phone got me thinking about Clue... and I've decided that most things in our lives can be linked directly back to this classic whodunit board game.

It is fair to say that in order to ask 'that guy' to dance last song of the night (aka Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven) at the end of the grade nine get-to-know-you mixer, each girl on earth has had to channel her inner vixen, Miss Scarlett. Haven't we all assumed our boss to be scatterbrained Professor Plum and underestimated the attention he pays to the extra 10 minutes we sneak in on our lunch breaks? Who amongst us has not had to reach for yet another glass of wine in order to be able to sit sweetly at the dinner table smiling at fat Mrs. Peacock, the passive aggressive phony bitch, as we refrain from pelleting her with dinner rolls and instead ask politely for her to pass the wonderful mashed potatoes? Can you look at yourself in the mirror and honestly say you have always treated Mrs. White, the plain-faced 'attendant' who accidentally double scans your Tide at the till on a busy Saturday afternoon at Wal-Mart or the mousy haired 'servant' who forgets the lemon slice in your water at Kesley's, with the respect she undoubtedly deserves? Is your road rage always suppressed at Colonel Mustard, the stiff lipped old geezer with veteran plates, when he goes straight through a right turn lane and unknowingly cuts you off? And what about Mr. Green? The cunning business man... the guy who refuses to take any less than the $8 which is clearly marked in black sharpie on the masking tape placed carefully on the upper right corner of the originally boxed, practically unused set of Vision cookware at his garage sale? How irritated are you about that guy? How many friends do you tell about cheap-ass Mr. Freakin Green? My guess is that you tell everyone about Mr. Green.... that capitalistic bastard!

We have each thrown our fair share of proverbial daggers, tossed a monkey wrench into someone else's best laid plans or intentionally given someone enough rope so they could simply hang themselves, allowing us to smugly exit the ballroom leaving them dangling; a victim of their own mis-evaluation of facts. Like Clue, most of the conundrums we find ourselves in can be sorted out if we wait our turn, keep our suspicions to ourselves, listen to the other false accusations which inevitably fly around and eventually come to a reasonable solution based entirely on facts. Majority of the time however, we threaten to ram a candlestick up the suspected offenders' ass and chase them from room to room not even caring to look around for the hidden envelope which contains the truth.

The funny thing about Clue is that even when the mystery is solved... we never learn the motive for the offense. I suppose this is because motives are so subjective. If we believe for instance, that Mrs. Peacock really was bludgeoned by Professor Plum as she sat chatting on the phone in the study, it would be a likelihood that if we were able to ask Plum about why he bludgeoned Peacock, he would feel quite justified... Peacock on the other hand (if she were not dead) would likely give quite a different and very believable version of the conflict. Both people involved giving exactly the opposite, first hand testimony of the same event. It's not a coincidence that motive was never a necessity to prove the crime... the accused had enough personal proof to execute the offense and the victim is already well, a victim, at least from one person's perspective... certainly Peacock's! In every instance, we each have our own motives, regardless of what truth the envelope holds... and even if the envelope did reveal to us the motive, who's perspective would it be from? I do wonder however why the envelope never revealed that Col. Mustard did it in the library with Mrs. White.... that would certainly have been a twist and would have lent another meaning entirely to what exactly the 'lead pipe' really was! < insert David Wilcox song here >

My grey plastic phone is not modern, or chic or bluetooth compatible... but I love it nonetheless. Each time I see it, a different story unfolds in my head about what Mrs. Peacock was really talking about that fateful day in the study and I wonder, had she a secret revolver hidden under the desk and noticed Plum in her peripheral vision, acted swiftly and saved herself from Plum's attack how differently things would be perceived. Same day. Same game. Same people. Same weapons (except perhaps the pipe - see above). Same study. Same questions. Same connections. Same phone.

Miles Davis and Me

I made many ill thought out decisions in my youth because of my unhealthy attachment to boys, including (but certainly not limited to) becoming a summer camp counselor, knitting a giant sweater, enrolling in a church youth group and agreeing to take a singing role in the school production of Oliver Twist. For about 20 minutes in high school, I had a wild crush on a fella named Matt. I appreciated his crooked smile, unkempt hair and adorable freckles. We both played the trumpet in Ms. Gautier's music class. He was in the band. I thought our mutual joy of opening the spit valve and spraying the hapless woodwind nerds was fate, so I joined the band too. Really... the band.

For any of you that know me, you recognize that my brain does not necessarily work in typical ways. I tend to view things in extremes... if I'm hungry it's likely that my liver has been eaten by my left lung in the struggle for survival and I'm going to turn yellow and suffocate before I can get up the stairs to make myself a sandwich. If I'm cold it is probable that in the time it takes me to find a sweater the limbs on my upper torso will freeze and chip off like icicles, rendering me armless for all of eternity. If I hear a noise in the night I am convinced that someone has broken in and the neighbours will find us a week later, murdered with the new matching placements and stackable tupperware nowhere to be found. I find myself surprised each time that these things don't unfold the way I had imagined them... but then I move on, wondering when the next circumstance for adventure will arrive. I think this must be how I viewed boys. Every crush had its own unique story and purpose. Let's take Matt for example. In my head, one day Ms. Gautier would go crazy and me take hostage in the creepy closet where the black metal music stands were kept. Matt would rescue me by serenading her into a trance (not unlike a cobra being lulled into submission) by channelling his inner Miles Davis. When Ms. G was adequately tranquilized, I could then be freed from captivity. I now realize my partialness for boys was not based on the boys themselves, but rather they were a natural occurring symptom of simply wanting to believe in things which nobody else could imagine. In the case of Matt, it did not take me long to figure out that his freckles were really acne and Ms. Gautier's kidnapping scheme would likely never materialize... but though I was fickle about boys, my word was my word. I was committed to the band, kidnapping or not.

I realize that celebrating the Divine or learning an instrument were not bad things, the only issue was that once the crush was over, I was signing up for something else... onto the next story. By grade 12 I was essentially, an incredulous bible reading, off-key singing, bloody fingered knitting, kid-loathing camp counseling, tone deaf singing, matching band outfit wearing, trumpet playing twit. Had I actually taken the time to learn (and retain) something from all of my antics I may have ended up a Nobel peace prize laureate for my selfless work in establishing various musical Christian ministries for orphaned children in arctic climates. If I had to do it all over again though, I would not change a thing... well except perhaps I would have played the flute instead. I hear those kids have more fun at summer camp. Live and Learn. And dream.

Online Fishing

A portion of my job requires me to develop marketing strategies and communication plans for new programs and initiatives. In each instance of a new program launch, language needs to be clear and contain a strong call to action from the selected recipient; in other words, the key to marketing something successfully is identifying your target audience and deciding on focused key messaging to increase your chances of receiving a positive response. I mention this because recently, a girlfriend of mine has informed me she is considering developing an online dating profile and has asked me for some help. I have never had my own profile, so before agreeing to assist her, I felt it necessary to do some research into what a good profile contains.

In my reviews I noticed that the majority of women (aside from the people who are open and honest about their intention to simply 'hook up') are posting in the hopes of finding a mate; someone to connect with, striving to eventually remove their profile because they have met their soulmate and have reached the apex of emotional utopia with their Plenty of Fish 'catch' or found a hot-pot of wunderlust caused by the love eruption they unearthed in their Lava Life experience. Keeping this goal in mind, it makes sense to me that people would want to advertise themselves in the most clear and concise manner possible. Doing this would ensure anyone responding to the 'advertisement' would not be under any illusions about what kind of gal you really are; again, clear messaging to attract members of the intended target audience. Instead of uncovering a network of single people gathered together, sharing a common goal... I was boggled at what I discovered; how on earth could a man buy any of the BS these women are trying to sell?? Let me share some of the confusion with you now:

Riefer does not use drugs
NaturalGurl has an interest in tanning
RipeMangos is interested in 'words with meaning'
SexyMommie69 just started pharmacy school and is not into one night stands
DDdelicious (double d delicious) likes to be taken seriously
SEXySquirrel hates bugs and vermin
KittenMittens is sophisticated
LeXXus is very mature and unpretentious

Perhaps the key is picking a an appropriate screen name. It sets the tone for your overall profile and is the first impression potential mates will have of you... for example, if you say you you are only interested in 'men who will respect you' (another very popular term... on par with not wanting to play mind games, loving a good glass of red wine and appreciation of fine dining) don't call yourself, 'LiquorInTheFrontPokerInTheBack'. Make sense?

I do have to admit I was more than a little wooed by 'buttapecan69'. This woman was honest and forthcoming, right down to naming her favourite kind of ice cream. Butta posted a photo of herself wearing bright fuchsia lipstick and boasting a large strawberry tattoo on her cleavage. She says she is a 'career driven Marketing/Entertainment/Executive Administrator and has crazy work hours'. Personally, I can not imagine a more creative way to say, “I'm a stripper who has recently put on a few pounds and has been demoted to collecting cover charges at the door”.

Its not that I am judging these women. In this day and age, advertising yourself online is not only a viable option but certainly the most efficient way to find a mate. It's just that I am confused. Why waste time making a phony pitch about yourself? Why can't these women just be genuine and forthcoming about what they are all about? Maybe I am wrong, but if I was a man trying to wade through all the already difficult waters of all that is female, I would certainly appreciate a little help along the way.

In the spirit of honesty and targeted messaging, my profile would look something like this:

HEP HIV & HERP Free
I don't cook. I will not pick up your crap or iron your shirts; I assume you are an adult and are capable of doing these things for yourself. I am not especially emphatic or friendly and I am not interested in becoming responsible for healing any issues you may have because your mother didn't breastfeed you in your infancy. I suffer from occasional night terrors and unpredictable bouts of road rage. My feet smell in my slippers. I have been known to bust out into spontaneous rap about nothing in particular and have a tendency to invent my own words in everyday conversation and expect that you know what I am talking about . Though I am only 35, I am easily confused and may possibly be in the early onset stages of dementia. I have been to a Jonas Brother's concert, and rather enjoyed myself. I believe Polysporin is the cure for most aliments. I rarely wear make-up. I have an exceptionally low tolerance for stupidity. I like to quilt and have been known to spend hours wandering happily around fabric stores feeling up the flannelette. Red wine gives me a headache. And yes... sometimes I am being 'like that' because I am in fact on my period. I am not opposed to eating ribs or chicken wings on a first date. I am looking for a man who can appreciate the value in being with a woman who knows the difference between a Phillips and a Robertson head screwdriver. Must have your own money. Mouth breathers need not apply.

It may not sound like much on paper, but at least they'd wouldn't be wasting their time thinking they were communicating with a Molly Maid-ish, sommelier sex goddess who watches UFC in a thong.

So to my friend, if you still want my help... call me. If I don't hear from you, I will assume you are scoping out some nature trails for the long autumn walks you don't actually take or perhaps brushing up on the classic novels you will never read or at the very least planning your trip abroad because to date, your love of travel and adventure has taken you as far as Sleeping Beauty's magical castle at Disneyland when you were 12. Happy dating.

Shimmy-Shimmy

The only dance move I can properly execute is the ‘shopping cart’, and even with this one I morph into a spastic flailing freak complete with a wicked groovin’ overbite. I will also on occasion shout out an ‘oh yeah’ (like the Kool-Aid guy who busts through the wall) or a ‘whoo-hoo’ right before the chorus. It's like a disease... I am completely unable to control my body or contain my hooting. In the past I have made attempts to bust out different moves from my internal dancing arsenal. I took ballet as a young girl and as a teenager I considered myself a committed fan to Monika Deol and Electric Circus. Back then I was young and impressionable, something should have stuck with me... but nope.. I just can't seem to get my swerve on.

One of my best friends Nicole, besides being a jaw-droppingly beautiful girl, is a total dance machine. It seems reasonable to me that because we go out together, we should be shakin our money makers together as well. Either she really loves me, or she enjoys my idiocy because with me beside her, in comparison she looks like a finalist on Dancing with the Stars. I have pulled her down to the floor on many occasions after losing my balance trying to do that twisty-type move that seems to really compliment AC/DC's classic "You Shook Me All Night Long", I have accidentally shoved her into other people spilling their drinks and I even hit her once... square in the face with one of my wildly thrashing arms. I think I may call her tonight and apologize. Again.

I think more songs that have standardized dance moves should be introduced. What is the problem with the Macarena or the Bird Dance? With those dances, everyone has an opportunity to trip the light fantastic without feeling like Elaine from Seinfeld. I suppose the question I am asking myself is why do I keep trying? I mean sitting here on my couch I am aware and cognisant of the fact that the strangers (along with the people I love and adore) who are smiling and laughing at me while I'm on the dance floor are not expressing their joy at my gracefulness but when I am out, with my friends and Mr. Jack Daniels, I just can't control myself. I feel like the pull to the stage is too much for me to resist. In my head, the disco ball is spinning just for me and the crowd is chanting, "Leona, Leona, Leona" and it is like... my human duty to go out on to the floor, spank those planks, and fill my rightful spot on everyone's dance card in only a way that an uncoordinated, over-bite donning, shimmy-shimmy shopping cart pushing white girl can. You're welcome.

20 minute workout

There have been many times when in the middle of the day; I have ‘found’ hidden items in my clothing such as underpants or socks stuffed in a pant leg. I have gone out wearing my slippers because I have simply forgot to put shoes on. I think we have all gone to school or work with our clothes on inside out or backwards and I regularly wear two different socks because I can never find the mate and we all know the joke of the woman leaving the bathroom with a few squares of t.p. stuck to her shoe. These things are tolerable and even typical for most of us (well at least for me) … yesterday however was a different story. Bare with me.

I am growing out my hair and right now it’s going through a awkward stage. It looks bad up, it looks bad down. It’s just generally very bad hair. Yesterday morning, I was at my wits end with my hair so I put it up with 2 bobby pins and headed off to work. Mid-day I was working when my hair fell over my face. I tried to put it back up and noticed that I had lost one of my bobby pins. I found a rubber elastic in my desk (yes, very chic I know) and was good to go… no problem. After work, my daughter and I went tobogganing. We took the dogs and went for a walk to the back fields and had a great time. When I was a little kid, I would toboggan for hours.... slide down the hill, trudge up the hill. No problem. I am older now, and a little beefier and walking up the hill is far more arduous. By the end of our playing I was pooped. My legs and butt hurt! We went home, made dinner , did homework, watched American Idol blah blah blah.

About 9:30 I really started to notice the ache in my legs and butt from the exercise. I stood up and stretched convinced that because of my 40 minutes of sliding I now had legs of steel and an arse so firm a quarter could quite handily bounce off it. I told Jason about my new ass – quite surprised that he hadn’t already noticed the difference on his own – and when he looked at me quizzically, I grabbed hold of a cheek and told him to find a quarter so I could demonstrate the coin bouncing, quite confident and cocky in my newly developed buttocks and Suzanne Sommers thigh-master legs. Much to my dismay however, instead of proving that I should be on an at home workout video with people enviously throwing coins at me and ducking from the ricochet… guess what I discovered instead? Anyone???

The freaking bobby pin! I had a bobby pin, hiding out in the crack of my ass all day! Well, you can imagine my shock. Jason started laughing. Like that laugh that where you lose all control of your muscles and collapse into a heap. I could not understand HOW I walked around all day with a bobby pin lodged in my ass. And then it occurred to me. I do not have firm buttocks. I have buttocks that permit me to walk around all day, unaware that a foreign object is jammed between my cheeks. Needless to say, for the rest of my life whenever anyone in my house needs and extra hand to carry anything, the question will be posed to me: ‘Leona, do you mind carrying this for me”? It will then be followed by gales of laughter. I must accept this fact if I am to continue living with my family.

So, the next time any of us leaves our house in our slippers, goes to work feeling a little less than ‘put together’ or is teased for wearing a sweater inside out... go into the bathroom and check your ass. If you find nothing there be grateful. Walk out into your office with your mis-buttoned head held high knowing that there are definitely worse things than discovering a wayward nylon stocking stuck in your pant leg.

Fermented Revenge

I work in a relatively large place. Three times a year we converge for all-staff meetings to discuss relevant issues and topics for our organization. Yesterday during one such meeting the awful and mysterious public fart presented itself in all its repugnant wonder. Whilst I was quietly gagging in the back row of the packed auditorium it occurred to me… this has happened, at least once to each one of us… and as gross at it is… it really is hilarious.

It comes in many forms, the public fart. The one that is brewing when you are in a job interview or in a meetings with clients and finally after seemingly forever it slowly oozes out and everyone know it’s there but nobody acknowledges it, the loud one which you feel you have no choice but to blame on your children, the silent deadly one that sneaks out in the cracker aisle which you hurriedly run away from with your shopping cart in tow hoping that it doesn’t follow you all the way to canned soup and pasta or the dreaded bathroom/toilet one where you are doing your business in a private stall and it echoes for all to hear; reverberating across the metal walls, reaching decibels beyond the actual capacity which any mere mortal fart ever should. I think the public restroom fart truly is the worst kind for people even though it really should be the most socially acceptable of all the types. I mean in that instance we just hide out in the stall until the last of the other bathroom dwellers are gone… we sit and listen intently for the hand washing water to stop running and the auto dryer to start so we can then stand up and flush and leave the stall without everyone seeing who the perpetrator of the atomic woofer really was.

Granted, there are people (like Jason, my betrothed) who wholeheartedly embrace bean bombing and enjoy terrorizing unsuspecting members of the public. I can recall recently a trip to the local hardware store where Jason and I went our separate ways, me looking for birdseed and him off to find deck screws. I eventually found him laughing to himself and when I asked him what was so funny, he regaled me with a crop dusting tale (crop dusting: where you walk and fart, dusting an entire area with your scented scream) where he witnessed each person's reaction and facial contortions as the waft hit them. I told him it sounded an awful lot like fart pinball to me, especially with the visuals of each person's head whipping around trying to find some scent-less air pocket in which to embrace. In saying this, perhaps loving your own trouser coughs is primarily a man thing. I can't really see a man hiding in a bathroom stall after a particularly juicy flaming corn-hole expression. Come to think of it, it was only my brother and his friends rooting around in the bathroom cupboards looking for aerosol cans of hairspray in an attempt to be the ultimate winner in their blue angel contests.

One of my dear friends, I will call her Lori, up until a few days ago was in complete ‘methane denial’. She is quite proud of the fact that in her decade of marriage she has allowed less than ten (10) gaseous excretions to escape the confines of her steel trap sphincter in the presence of her husband. On New Year ’s Eve we attended a house party. Lori had a bit to drink and in the process, temporarily surrendered some of her typical meticulously in control body functions. At the end of the evening Lori bent over in an attempt to put her boots on. She was unsuccessful with this endeavour and instead fell head first, ass up into a blue recycle bin and in the process, unknowingly allowed an enormous butt thundering ripper to escape her cheeks. The next day, when I (gleefully) reminded Lori of this incident, she started weeping from embarrassment. I told her that she should be proud of herself. Lori did not simply break wind she successfully broke through a barrier which most of us tend to suffer from; fartophobia – the fear of farting. Everyone farts. Everyone laughs when someone else farts. Finger pulls all around in your honour Jason and Lori… thank you both for your selflessness!

Perhaps 2010 is the year where we can all stand proudly in the supermarket where we have just cut the proverbial cheese, where we stride proudly out of the bathroom stall when a particularly obnoxious air biscuit has been expelled… where you let one drop in the auditorium during an all staff meeting and instead of hiding your head in shame, you stand proudly and look at the people in the back row covering their noses and exclaim, ‘Yep that was me sucka’… drink it in!’

Getting lucky in the kitchen

I was 8 when I started making lettuce, mayonnaise, pepper and salt sandwiches. My father referred to them lovingly as ‘air sandwiches’ and at one point refused to let me eat them unless I slapped a piece of ham on there too; therein started the beginning of the end of my commitment to culinary excellence. No way was I ever going to slap anyone’s ham because I was instructed to do so… in my view, regardless of the protein item in question (baloney, tube steak, ham etc) meat slapping was then, and still remains a private and personal choice.

When I was 18 I went on a road trip to Daytona beach. We intended to tent camp while we were there but on the first night we were hit with several tornadoes. We had to round up some cash to move into a shady motel and because we had only brought enough money for camping and booze, there certainly was not enough money for food! It was on this trip I discovered eating Chef Boy R’Dee, cold and out of a can was the most cost efficient and easy solution… heck I could even use a plastic fork… no dishes! I wondered… were the tornadoes a personal message to me from God? Did the Almighty himself want me to know that eating could be just this simple? 79 cents a can … no fuss no muss.

My standard of culinary commitment essentially is: ‘what do I need to do to ensure my family does not get scurvy?’ I mean really, what should the standard be? I have never seen a love-meter in a family home which only rises when homemade ravioli stuffed with organic chicken and foot stomped red sauce is served. I can certainly appreciate when someone takes the time to prepare a delicious meal, but I most often find that the person who prepares is sits at the dinner table, hands neatly crossed in front of them not eating until everyone has taken their first bite. The cook sits in wait, remaining silent and stoic until the inevitable compliments and accolades come flowing in one by one from the diners. Only then will the cook smile and pick up a fork after professing, “oh it was nothing really”. Gross. More than once I have watched this happen and when it’s my turn to praise I will start coughing and waving my hands in an ‘don’t worry I’m okay’ kind of way , before the obligatory praise consisting of ‘mmmmm… yummy’. I love the look on the cook’s face when they think that their meal has made someone choke or gag. Immature perhaps but if feeding an ego is the purpose, then I just can’t subscribe. Personally, I would hate to define myself through other people’s opinions about the appropriate firmness level or saltiness of my red snapper.

Ironically, my children and I have bonded significantly through my complete inability to cook well. My oldest son and I still laugh about my attempt at a recipe I took out of the 4 ingredient cookbook. I only had 2 of the ingredients so I tried to wing it. We now refer to that evening’s meal as ‘meat blob’... need I say more? More than once I have beat the fire alarm with household items such as brooms and hockey sticks as it seems that even the simplest act of me turning on the stove to boil water sets off the alarm. In every instance, these situations send my kids into gales of laughter. What other family activity brings together children more than a joint appreciation of the incompetence of their parents? Yes, I am useless in the kitchen… lucky me.

My shrunken head

I fully understand the human condition and the basic desire to know that there are people worse off than ourselves. In a sick and twisted way, knowing these things make us feel more content and okay with the fact that we are all dysfunctional in some way. I mean, I’d be hard pressed to meet one single person who hasn’t laughed to the point of near incontinence when Maury Povich emphatically announces that though he is the 6th person tested, Darnell is NOT the father of Bon’Qui Qui’s 7 month old daughter, Sha’ Nay Nay. I myself never tire of the inevitable booty slapping dance of joy from Darnell which is always followed up with Bon’ Qui Qui’s subsequent knocking over the chair and hysterical running off stage because she was 100% sure he was the baby daddy. It’s funny.

In saying this however there has to be a line of decency and I think TLC has officially crossed it with their new reality show entitled, ‘My Giant Head’. I mean really… people in North America will watch with bated breath as the 650 pound virgin strives to get his cherry popped, loyally follow the train wreck that was Jon and Kate, weep for poor Kiniki who will never sing Grease Lightning again unless Dr. Drew can cure his addiction and cheer for the half ton mother to finally be able to play with her children after the stomach stapling surgery… but a giant head? C’mon! Have we really sunk so far that our entertainment requires intentionally turning on a show about some guy who’s head won’t stop growing? My initial question of course when I heard about this show was, “well how big IS the head exactly”? Sickeningly, I wondered, can he fit into cars using the regular sedan size doors or is the sliding door of a mini-van the only option for him and his gargantuan head, can he only wear button up shirts, does his stylist charge double for a wash and cut? I suppose the answers to these questions will be on the show, but for some reason I just can’t bring myself to watch this particular brand of misfortune. Perhaps this topic just hits a little too close to home for me because my ex-husband has a freakishly large head (no offence intended to him) or maybe it’s because my own head is so small it borders on consideration for shrunken status… but my moral code, regardless of how loosey-goosey it’s been in the past, will just not allow me to do it.

Maybe I have reached the threshold for my reality TV capacity. What ever happened to shows like Cheers where people could connect with Norm’s desire to escape Vera or Cliff’s unhealthy co-dependence on his mother? Even kids shows … I used to race home from school so I could see what the new drama on Degrassi was going to be… How will Spike cope with being a teenage mom? Will Wheels finally meet his absentee father? Are Arthur and Yik able to repair their friendship? I can honestly say that the reason I didn’t try acid in high school was because I didn’t want to pull a ‘Shane’ and dive bomb off the roof believing that I could fly. Yeah, Degrassi… that was a show!

Have we really lost the ability to imagine and create our own realities? Is being entertained by the oversized cranium of Mr. Sain Mumtaz easier to do than to accept our own ailments and issues? I don’t know about the rest of you, but I think it’s fair to say that in my life there has been more than one thing that could have quite handily been made into a reality series and somehow I managed to find my way out just fine without TLC... well fine-ish at least! Sure, from time to time I exploited Darnell and Bon’ Qui Qui to make me feel a bit better, but whatever. I really do hope the doctors find a cure for Sain’s exploding head… perhaps he’s Sha’Nay Nay’s daddy. Somebody ought to call Maury.

Resolve THIS!

As a personal rule, I do not subscribe to the whole idea of making New Year’s resolutions. I mean, if I recognize that I need to improve or enhance some aspect of myself, does setting a date to start the improvements mean that I am simply content with being mediocre, or even irresponsible until the magical date of January 1st? “Oh sorry Dave, I can’t help out with community kitchen initiative right now. Call me in January though when I will believe feeding the impoverished of our community is important. I hope the soup turns out well. Merry Christmas to you and yours.”

Though I recognize that self-improvement is important and fundamental to the evolution of both ourselves and society as a whole, I really wish the framing of it would not be under the guise of a resolution especially because the propensity to dismiss the life transformations, after only a short while, certainly outweighs the likelihood that with the magical bonging of the 12th bell at midnight on December 31st, you will simply want to call your mother more often, give up Tim Horton’s coffee and put that $2/day away to start sponsoring a child in Africa, sign up to deliver meals on wheels to shut-ins, stop smoking, give up Cheetos and lose 50 pounds.

Can’t we just all agree that if we can do one thing better each day than we did yesterday we should be proud of ourselves? There are people in our world who strive each day to eat green vegetables, to not allow their vehicles to idle for more than 10 seconds, to be accepting and tolerant of those who are discriminated against, find ways of helping the seemingly helpless and to give a voice to the disenfranchised. These people do not wait until January 1st to make their health a priority or support global social justice. If I may be so bold as to sum it up with a quote from one of the most awe inspiring and motivational people that I am aware of in our modern day:

“I might as well be gay. And not just because I love rhinestones and Barbara Streisand. But because I'm a sensitive person who is supportive of gay people the same way I'm sensitive to grossly obese people and ugly people.” – Richard Simmons

Now if that gem doesn’t jazzersize your inner guru into action, regardless of the date on the calendar… I don’t know what will! Happy New Year !

So... apparently I'm almost old

So it seems that I am no longer in my 20's. I mean I suppose I should have realized this fact 5 years ago when I turned 30 but it didn't occur to me until just recently when I tried on a funky pair of camouflage cargo pants. I spun in the dressing room, admiring my camo-clad butt from every angle and decided that I absolutely could not live one more minute without them. I had fantasies about coupling my new pants with a sassy white tank top, flip flops and perhaps a whimsical ball cap and walking through the produce aisle at No Frills in June looking like a camo-godess, not unlike Lara Croft. She-Zam!!! I walked out of the dressing room only to notice a young woman who was trying on the same pair of pants and wearing a college sweatshirt. Her friends were oogling over her and talking about how great they would look with a white tank top in the summer. She was a truly beautiful young woman and looked totally amazing in her pants; I was so pleased that I too was a member of the cool-camo-cargo-pant club. We were practically twins this college girl and me!

So in my happy fantasy land, I went up to the cash to pay and while I was waiting for the checkout associate, my twin said to her friends, "these are a bit big, can you grab me a size 3?" I almost fell down. A size 3? How could that be??? We were twins... yet my pants held a tag which very clearly stated size 12. Her and I were the same, identical twins even. How could my perfectly sassy pants be 9 sizes bigger than hers??? My world started to shrink, the silver chain belts hanging beside the till started clanging together and the slogan t-shirts that said 'save a horse ride a cowboy' and 'I'm a natural blonde... you will have to speak slowly' started to come alive.

Oh My GAWD... I am 35 years old. I have 2 children, 3 step-children, an ex-husband, a fiancee, a golden retreiver, a career and I laugh out loud at the Kraft tex-mex cheese commercial where the woman has a pinata that looks like her mother in law . I am approaching middle age. I have officially moved up to a different demographic check box on survey's which I fill out regularly to get free samples of maxi-pads and granola bars. I am not in the same club as the college girl who wears a size 3. If I buy these pants, someone will submit my name for that show 'What Not to Wear' and I don't think I can cope with that. It's a small town. I can no longer wear camouflage cargo pants.