Oh Adele, we could have had it all… but then Monday joined the party

“There’s a fire starting…”

The last snooze timed out and Adele’s ‘Rolling in the Deep’ jolted me out of doze mode. The beat found me under the covers and grabbed me by the foot. Next thing I knew I was rocking out an impromptu Rolling Stone photo shoot. I went for it with full-on Lindsay Lohan abandon – sheets flying back arching hair tossing lips pouting hands on hips…etc. For my glorious finale I swept back my hair, flashed a dashing smile to the invisible camera, and swung my legs (toes pointed) gracefully over the side of the bed – my left ankle bone lining up perfectly with the corner of the bedside table…

<SMACK>”… you played it to the beat…”

I spent the last few bars of the song curled up in fetal position nursing my injury. Thank you Monday, thank you very much.

What do you do when Monday steals your glamour? You take it back! When I got to work I found Adele’s song online, shut my office door, and proceeded to rock out hard core, with full-on Cymbria abandon – arms flailing hips swinging hair flying knees bobbing face grinning…etc. Even tethered to the computer by headphones, I gave it my all. Was anyone watching from behind the half-closed retirement home blinds outside my window? Who cares! You know what, I hope they were watching! And I hope they felt my joy. We only get one life, may as well live it dancing!

After eight years of marriage… caught in the act!

Oh the shame. I know we all do it. It’s natural, oh so satisfying, and perfectly healthy. But I managed to go eight long years before my husband ever caught me in the act. I could have sworn I heard the door shut after him on his way to work. I was so sure I was alone…

Then the shower curtain tweaked open and there was his rosy cheeked face looking up at me all innocent and questioning, as if seeing me for the very first time…

“Were you…?” he asked, his smile gleeful as he peeled back the last layer of his wife’s nakedness. “Were you really singing in the shower?”

Public washroom cell phone etiquette – Lesson #1

RIIIIING~ RIIIIING~ RIIIIING~The woman answered her cell mid-flush. I listened in on the short conversation from the next stall – because you know the one thing classier than answering a phone on the toilet is eavesdropping in a Walmart public washroom.

After telling the caller she’d phone him/her back, she hung up and started carping to her real-time companion on the other side of my monkey-in-the-middle stall:

“I hate answering my phone when I’m on the can!”

“Ya, me too,” agreed the friend. “Who was that anyway?”

“I have no idea.”

Maybe I’m a luddite, or just a stubborn hold-out when it comes to that quaint little concept of personal privacy, but I can’t help wondering why any phone HAS to be answered the moment it starts ringing. I suppose, like new mothers, we’re all programmed to respond to the wailings of the people who need us, but what about the mystery? The anticipation? At least wait out the flush, people. At least the flush!

Born in a Walmart parking lot… The Urban Yoke

Ever notice how a shopping cart is almost exactly the size of a car’s trunk? Both can comfortably fit a body and/or the spoils of a Sunday morning mission to Walmart. This revelation came too late for yours truly, who recently found herself stranded in the middle of a snowy Walmart parking lot with a cart’s worth pile of loot heaped at her feet, but no car, no trunk, and no options – and stubbornness can only take a girl so far.

Just then, a small sedan pulled up out of nowhere. The driver opened his door and leaned out. “Are you ok? Do you need a hand there?”

Now, I’m a great believer in chivalry; I take an opened door with all due grace and appreciation. But I draw the line at accepting rides - however fortuitous - from strange men in Walmart parking lots, men who quite possibly spend their Sunday mornings trolling said parking lots for bodies to fit snugly into their trunks.

“No thanks,” I said, with all due grace and appreciation, “I’m fine. It’s just a question of logistics.”

Now, I’m also a great believer in creative problem solving. I took a fresh look at all my available resources (excluding the man who gave me a weird look before driving off). Eureka! And the ‘Urban Yoke’ was born! Note toilet paper back padding. After a joyous stroll home (ok I’ll be honest here, it was still one heck of a trudge) I pulled the hubby out of bed to come take a picture of my genius. He also gave me a weird look, especially when I described my vision for an ergonomically molded, carbon fiber version for Mountain Equipment Coop. I guess some of us are just ahead of our time….and other people don’t buy more than they can carry, sigh.

Who says Groundhog Day is a corny holiday?

I was rooting through my stalk of picks (and apparently puns), looking for the photo I’d taken to accent a vaguely philosophical post about a shower curtain (don’t ask), when I came face to cob with ultimate summer bliss. Suddenly, I was aching for spring… aching. Groundhog Day may not be the most noble of holidays, but is it so wrong to want a little bit of hope? Even if it’s from a rodent? Even if said rodent lives in a place called Gobbler’s Knob? Who needs dignity when the today’s prediction tasted so darn gooood.

The fallibility of statistics when applied to housework and husbands

I came home to find that I had won our latest Mexican Standoff. The dishes were done (sweet joy!), but there was a small debris pile on the counter by the stove.

“Dude!” I called to hubby from the kitchen (after thanking the man for backing down first – of course). “You can’t have broken two cups doing the dishes once. That’s a statistical impossibility!”

“Not when you drop one cup on the other one. Oh, and we need new dish gloves too – one of the fingers ripped open.”

Sound logic, sure, but the man had no explanation for his forth casualty; discovered the next day, when I was only three inches away from slicing my lip open on its splintered glass rim.

Well, I suppose I now know why it’s always the bull in the china shop, and never the steer – statistically speaking…

The dangers of reading over other people’s shoulders

It’s 7:54AM and the bus is packed. I’m squished in by the back doors, trying not to make eye and/or backpack contact with any of my fellow sufferers. The plump, mousy haired, maternal archetype in the seat in front of me is engrossed in a thick novel. I’ve always been jealous of those lucky people whose stomachs let them read on transit. I sneak a peak, anything to keep from thinking about how late we all are. Etiquette aside, what’s the harm in sharing a sentence?

“She sits down and offers Mandy a breast.”

Wowsers! (a term I never use lightly) This woman, lost in her own private world of forbidden lusts – and so early in the morning too! – blows apart my first impression. I look around… so many books, so many secrets. Who are you when you think nobody’s looking? I can’t resist a second sentence…

“The baby latches on…”

Sigh.

Two mischievous Christmas jokes courtesy of Canada’s most brilliant poet

What do you call it when a Martha Stewart brand string of Christmas lights catches on fire?

-A Controlled Burn

What do you call it when Mrs. Claus does the Rumba?

-Pole Dancing

I’d like to thank my favorite Canadian poet for these two gems!

Ok, so maybe I took ‘Casual Friday’ a bit too far…

In my mad rush this morning, I completely forgot to reset the alarm for dear hubby. I changed the time for him, even put the clock up on the mattress so he would hear it when it went off, but never flicked the switch to ‘on’. Thankfully, while I was bustling about, he regained just enough consciousness to catch the slip. But there was something else I forgot to do…

I raced out into the hallway to grab my winter jacket, complaining, “Man, it’s cold this morning,” to the still cozy, still comatose thing in the bedroom. It was cold… too cold. As I reached for my jacket, I looked down… I’d remembered my socks – impressive any day of the week – but had totally forgotten to put on pants!

Sigh… mornings.

(image source)

A sure sign it’s time to do the dishes…

“Can you get me a plate?” called hubby from the living room.

“Um… there are no plates,” I answered from the kitchen.

He didn’t skip a beat. “Or something plate-like then?”

With all due pomp and circumstance, I presented my man with a Tupperware lid.

In the years since the renegotiation of THE (infamous) DEAL – a politically charged, highly controversial, bit of newlywed legislation - we’ve held a long running Mexican Standoff over the dishes. And, much like the World War II era housewives who fashioned ball gowns out of mattress ticking, we weather each long siege (before the inevitable dish soap blitz) with resourcefulness and creativity. Necessity may be the mother of invention, but in our Calgary apartment, invention’s maternal grandparents go by the names ‘stubbornness’ and ‘procrastination’.

A 21st century pirate’s perfect pet

I went searching for the remote control last night and found it perched on my husband’s shoulder, the rubber buttons gripping the fabric of his T-shirt like tiny clawed toes.

“Awww cute,” I teased. “It’s like a pirate’s little parrot.”

However, the cuteness quickly faded when I discovered my pirate had shipwrecked us on Sportsnet.

Note: My apologies for the frightening composite. The cuteness of the idea faded quicker than Randy Moss’s 2010 contract with the Vikings…

Is it possible to embarrass yourself when no one is watching?

Proof: I was walking into the kitchen while mumbling to myself in a pretentious New England accent (don’t ask, I’m embarrassed already) “let us contemplate the inherent…” when my left big toe caught in the hem of the opposite polar bear pajama pant leg and I pitched headlong into the door frame. As I hauled myself up and rubbed my bruised shoulder, I could feel my cheeks getting red hot…

Conclusion A: Yes. Without a doubt!
Conclusion B: Those who cannot multitask should keep their pant legs rolled up!

A blindingly yellow blond moment

I read the disclaimer at the bottom of the TV commercial with a chuckle – ‘Actor Portrayal’. Sulu’s lab coat only a prop? No… really? You’d have to be pretty spaced out to need that memo! {note deliberate foreshadowing}

As Star Trek’s original navigator waxed on about Sharp’s Aquos Quattron TVs, with their wondrous new yellow pixels, I couldn’t help feeling a little smug, even world weary, in my disgust. Is our culture really so desperate, really so lost, that screening a brighter yellow has become our definition of progress, even joy? Is a sunnier sun really worth so many extra hours’ earnings behind a desk? As if we need another excuse to hide behind a screen! How tragic… How sad… {note buildup}

Suddenly, a blindingly yellow seahorse came on screen and blew me away. Wow! Sulu wasn’t kidding! I felt a real twinge of emotion, of … dare I say it… joy? There was a simple, yet irrefutable, glory to the colour. I’d been so blind! Who am I to deny my people a touch of the sublime? Yes, a brighter yellow can make a difference – all the difference! It can be our one small push back against the darkness of a universe all too eager to swallow us whole…. {note contrast + (slight) hyperbole}

Then Sulu gently reminded us that we can’t see the new yellow on our old TVs. {note this blond turning bright red…sigh}

Cleaning In Character: Because there are ways of making life fun… even cleaning the bathroom

...because what could be more fun than sharing your struggles with a colour coordinated, early 20th century, Eastern European peasant girl?

Remember Puff The Magic Dragon? Remember how little Jackie Paper abandoned his best friend for “other toys,” and how heartbroken Puff “sadly slipped into his cave?” What a horrible lesson to teach kids! The idea that one outgrows one’s imagination is not only absurd, but cruel, and can even be crippling for certain personalities. Next time you’re in a long lineup, watch what happens… The children immediately evaluate their environment in terms of story possibilities and novel sensations, while the adults generally shuffle around getting bored and/or irritated. Which sounds like more fun to you?

National Geographic's next cover

What if we could protect our imaginations the same way we now wear sunscreen to prevent (or at least stave off) wrinkles? I, for one, refuse to compromise what continues to be my most powerful tool in how I interpret and interact with the world. Globalization has exposed us to so many differing cultural worldviews; why not explore the possibility of your own unique construct? Why not make life a little more fun?

Sure, I felt a bit silly cleaning in costume, but only at first. It was incredible how much more bearable (let’s not get carried away here) my chore became after I added the story. Try it for yourself! Your imagination is a whole lot closer to the surface than you’ve been led to believe…

Oh Calgary! Couldn’t you have waited till Tuesday to break my heart?

“Is this a stop?” I called out politely after an unsuccessful battle with the bus’ back doors. No one answered. I was sure I’d seen my bus # on the sign right outside the window – and the bus had bloody well stopped, hadn’t it!?

Maybe I was just asking too much from a Monday… for one (just one) of my fellow ‘civilized’ public transit customers to come forward with a word of help for one of their own. I know this is the start of the week; and I know Mondays come with their own set of rules, but…

As the bus pulled away from the curb, a man, two shoulders down, finally spoke. “Looks like you missed your stop,” he said.

Be proud of me, dear readers… I let him live.

But just like Calgary’s weather, its people are prone to Chinooks. My faith in humanity was restored five city blocks later when a woman opened a door for me, then held it for that extra glorious ½ second that takes a gesture straight from courtesy to comfort.

Yes, all was peaches and cream until I came face to face with The Sun’s Front Page. Why, Calgary, why? Can’t a girl make it to her desk without being forced to stare into the soul-dead eyes of a man tortured, beaten, and starved almost to death by his trusted roommate? Or should I simply appreciate the fact that his abuser – with a generosity similar to my own – ‘let him live’?

‘Kinky’ morning bus rides

Scene One: He was sitting a few rows ahead of me, legs splayed, owning his corner of the bus seat with the unchallenged authority of a business suit among jeans. The man fairly oozed masculine pride. His newspaper was spread as wide as his knees on the packed rush-hour bus. He turned the page, and I watched him try to shake a kink out of the main article. But in such a tight space, he only worsened the puckering.

Then it happened… Right in front of everyone, the man abandoned all pride (masculine or otherwise), ducked down his head, and poked out the kink with the tip of his nose. What can I say? My day was made~

Scene Two: The jam-packed bus pulled away from the curb. I grabbed hold of the only support within reach, a dangling, flimsy rubber hand-loop. As the blocks lurched by, I did my best to stay vertical. Putting the ol’ brain to work, I improved my stability by twisting/tangling my wrist up into the strap to limit slack, thereby reducing the egregious strains on my musculature. In theory, quite logical. In practice? Nothing like starting the day off hanging like some half-frozen pig carcass in an overloaded butcher’s trailer, swaying gently back and forth…

All well and good till you have to untangle yourself. “Excuse me,” I called out at my stop. The crowd pushed back to let me pass. Or rather, they pushed back to clear a stage for me to completely mortify myself! It took a full five agonizing seconds for me to extricate my arm. Go ahead, count five Mississippis. It’s a loooooong time. And you can bet it’s an infinity to any poor girl caught in an inadvertent S&M scene before breakfast! What can I say? Their day was made~

What happens when CROCS are released into the wild?

Adaptive by nature, CROCS are the chameleons of the footwear world. Once released into the wild, they quickly molt free of their urban fluorescents and adopt a more naturalistic palate, allowing them to blend seamlessly into their new surroundings.

Alert and on the lookout for unsuspecting fashion victims, a naturalized CROC lies in wait. Luckily, my Saucony’s scared this little fellow away before any toes (or dignity!) were lost.

Burning The Ugly Pants: Join a 2010 personal style makeover (Part Four)

This new beauty diet could use a little salt...

‘Stumbling’ upon a rerun of VH1’s Celebrity Rehab, I was shocked to hear Kerri Ann Peniche describe how, even as a child, she was forced to primp for every public appearance – middle school to grocery store. Her mother’s mantra, “because you never know where you’ll run into Mr. Right,” had an insidious effect on her daughter’s psyche. Lipstick in the produce aisle? Poor girl never stood a chance.

My parents, an artist and a poet, lived by very a different set of rules – none of them involving a hairbrush! Needless to say, we had a whole lot of fun, but advanced personal grooming was part of some other world, right along with daily dish washing and remembering other people’s birthdays. Personally, I’ve never been afraid of glamming it up, but only on occasion. The idea of daily maintenance, aiming for some rudimentary baseline, has never made it past the “wouldn’t that be nice” phase – until now. Part of my hesitation has come from knowing that for any perfectionist, the word baseline is such a tease. Where do you stop? Lipgloss? Eyeliner? Flat-iron? Where do you draw the line?

When you’re used to jumping between your own 1 and 10, how do you settle at 5? There’s a risk in projecting an honest, albeit lightly highlighted, self. Suddenly, there’s nothing to hide behind, no more comforting “he’d have noticed me if only I wasn’t wearing this sweater” delusions. And what if they do start noticing? I’ve been married to my own Mr. Right for almost 7 years, why would I want random strangers judging/soliciting me? Doesn’t ‘being on display’ just add more pressure to a person’s day?

The way I see it, the only way this can work is if our projections are 100% authentic, which is only possible once we’ve fully explored (and come to terms with!) the who/why/how’s of our most private selves. And, since time creates a dynamic system, and no system, even if static, can be fully justified within themselves (good ol’ Gödel), we come to an impasse. Or do we? For me, this is where faith comes in. It takes the edge off, so to speak. When your confidence is rooted in the infallible, that confidence (though not necessarily you) becomes impervious to smudged eyeliner or moments like these.

But enough talk… on to the action. In the pics below – because what’s a makeover without hard evidence – I’m glamming it up with my new highlights and Covergirl Lipstain in Berry Smooch. Because, like I always say (at least since this past Saturday), why snag your hair with gloss when you can set it free with tint!

Having a Winston Churchill moment with Covergirl Lipstain - Air kisses (in Berry Smooch) for all!

I have two confessions before I sign off. First: like all self portraits of quality, these come directly from my bathroom mirror. Second: I had just come back from the grocery store - sorry Kerri Ann. But in my defence, it was lipstain, not lipstick!

Need to catch up on this Saving Cymbria blog serial?

OK, so it was a bit of a rough morning…

When was the last time you had one of these mornings? You know, the kind where someone else sets the alarm for 5:30am when this is the one morning you don’t have to be up till 7:00am – the kind where that someone sleeps through 6 snooze alarms, then somehow expects to be cajoled gently into wakefulness by a sweetly saccharine wife.

Yes, t’was the kind of morning where you take the bus – rather than walking – to work because you know it would be cruel and inhumane to force anyone to spend 45 minutes trapped alone with such unabashed hostility, let alone your own self! T’was the kind where you make yourself even later by waiting in the lobby for the coast to clear, so you don’t have to share an elevator and risk an awful reaction to some poor hapless coworker’s “Good Morning.”

I thought I was doing quite a good job handling the situation in a mature and dignified manner. We all get into Grumps sometimes – no need to spread the toxicity. On the crowded bus, I kept my Klingon Death Stare fixed on a piece of black lint stuck to the fellow in front of me’s jacket, rather than on the twerp beside me – one of those lovely souls bereft of any concept of personal space. I didn’t avert my eyes from the (exactly 3.4mm diameter) fluff even when the bus lurched round a corner and I (lacking any extra footspace) had the uniquely excruciating experience of feeling my wrist bruising in real-time as one square inch of skin was crushed between my full weight and a metal pole.

I covered the few short blocks between the bus stop and my office with my brim pulled low down over my eyes. It was a public service, really, preventing my Medusa glare from laying waste to any number of unsuspecting commuters on the streets of downtown Calgary. But, on the last street corner, my conscientiousness backfired.

Out of nowhere, a trio of thin blue ribbons caught me around the neck. I was doing so well too, but when something tries to strangle you on the way to work (with or without warning!), some fine line of universal decency is crossed. I broke – my stride, my composure, at least one of the ribbons…

There I was, at 8am on a busy Calgary street corner, thrashing madly at three innocent helium balloons tethered to a “don’t you wish you lived here” folding sign. “AAAAAAARGH!” I let it all out. It was a brief, all too public, display of what it really means to be human. That, or just some crazy chick going psycho on modern marketing. I’m not proud of my little spectacle, and I can assure you there isn’t the least bit of satisfaction in railing on anything that’s essentially lighter than air, but I don’t regret it. Better three balloons than one alarm clock setter’s nose~wink.

Burning The Ugly Pants: Join a 2010 personal style makeover (Update I)

Since beginning this makeover, I have officially been hit on twice (albeit mildly) at the grocery store. This, as any woman will attest, must be logged as quantitative proof of progress. I bragged about this new development to my dear hubby, who was suitably impressed. Although, come to think of it, maybe he was a little too impressed. I’ve always assumed he thought of me as the blond Pied Piper of Calgary, trailing a long line of hapless suitors behind. Why else would I have spent 10 years learning the flute and waking up for 7:30 band practices!

Need to catch up on this Saving Cymbria blog serial?

Why he didn’t get that diamond encrusted Rolex for Valentines Day…

Scene: 6:50am, Calgary, in an apartment still reeking of hubby’s late night snack…

“Ok, so new rule.” I laid down the law. “Whoever cooks spicy Italian sausages on the George Forman [Grill] has to clean it right away.”

A snarky voice answered from the bedroom. “You’re not allowed to just go around arbitrarily making up rules.”

Then I, in one of those blithe philosophical musings visited upon those who find themselves half-in-and-half-out of winter jackets well before dawn, replied, “How does one make any rule, if not arbitrarily!”

“No, no,” my dear husband corrected me, coming round the corner, socks in hand and wearing a mischievous grin. “Only I’m allowed to make up rules arbitrarily.”

Humph…men.

Dear Fellow Writers: Has this ever happened to you?

I decided to sneak in a few more paragraphs of my current writing project while I was up at the front desk covering our receptionist’s lunch break today. Without intending to, I found myself slipping into THE ZONE. Even more unexpectedly, a full-on, entirely involuntary, facial meltdown hit me when I ran into the last few sentences of Chapter Four. The emotional drama of the scene was just too much – and this is someone who held out through almost the entire end-credits of Titanic. 

Tears weren’t just brimming, they were streaming down my cheeks. I blew my nose in tissue after tissue, to no avail. Even the briefest peek at the screen renewed the reaction, but I wasn’t about to back down – never when grammar’s at stake! Pretty soon my eyes were bloodshot and my face was unmistakably blotched and puffy. I was, inescapably, inexcusably, a girl crying at work.

The closest I’ve ever come to killing a man

I’d just taken off my glasses when I spotted a strange black, spindly looking speck on the middle of my bed. In one swift, automatic motion, like one of those robotic arms at GM checking a tail light, I squinted and leaned down for a closer look.

I remember that fateful day in grade six when I first discovered I needed glasses. My friend and I were running for the bus. “What number is it?” he hollered over his shoulder. I couldn’t tell him. I knew from the look he gave me after he’d turned to check for himself, that from that moment on the only 20/20s I’d be seeing would be quiz scores. Hey, we nerds have had to compensate somehow. It’s no coincidence grades and glasses go together. You wouldn’t believe how high my marks were the year I got braces!

As my nose came closer and closer to the comforter, I thought of how many times I’ve come face to face with that eternal question… dust? Or spider?  I must say though, despite all those jerk-back-and-scream moments, there’s a certain amount of empathy those of us with four eyes can’t help but feel for those poor souls cursed with eight. But, sometimes that’s not enough to protect them when the situation becomes a clear case of ’it’ or ‘me’.

I was over at a high school boyfriend’s house in grade eleven. Even though his parents were home (nothin’ to worry about Mom), it somehow fell to me to deal with the teeny arachnid lurking over their second floor landing. I vacuumed it up with the duster extension while my boyfriend cringed behind me. I decided to have a little fun with him (not that kind Mom).

“See,” I said, swinging the nozzle round to within inches of his face, “it’s right here!”

With a wild shriek, he flung himself backwards down the stairs.

Thankfully, the stairs were carpeted. Even more thankfully, he somehow caught hold of the railing – while upside down! - half a second before his head slammed into the ground. Still, to this day, it’s as close as I’ve ever come to killing a man.

The speck on my bed turned out to be a tiny mess of thread. I flicked it into the corner, where it now lies in wait to freak me out another day. Though luckily, now I have backup.

Marriage Perk #64

I drifted off last night into an exceptionally obnoxious nightmare – a rabid stray cat was going all Hannibal Lector on my toes. Not exactly apocalyptic, but far from a walk in the park! Which, as an avowed dog person, I imagine would have gone a whole lot better. I beat at the crazed feline furball and screamed for “HELP! HELP! GEORGE!! HELP!!!”

Within seconds, I jerked awake with an awful tingle in my toes that took a full ten minutes to dissipate. My husband reassured me that “No”, there weren’t any small animals with row upon row of tiny razor sharp teeth in bed with us. I had to take his word for it.

“Did you hear me yelling for you?” I asked.

“No,” said George, “but I saw your breathing speed up and I figured you might be having a nightmare. So I woke you up.”

I went straight into Disney mode, couldn’t help it. I was a girl-child of the Little Mermaid and Beauty and the Beast era; who could blame me? I swooned.

“You rescued me!”

I fawned over my Prince Charming in the pale moon glow of our bedside alarm clock. His cartoonish lambchops (a furry, sadly temporary, joke) exaggerated his cheekbones, transforming him into the archetypal animated crush. My friends from kindergarten would be so jealous! While I, with my sleep creased face and post-traumatic-dream-flailings, was anything but Sleeping Beauty. Yet, my hero had still fought for me, and, in his own sweet way, had cut through the vine choked labyrinth of my subconscious to save me. Though thankfully for the happily ever after of his nose, he was smart enough not to have tried waking me with a kiss!

Remember Marriage Perk #63?

The greatest loophole in gastronomical history

This morning’s chocolate craving was fierce, unrelenting, and entirely unexpected. I’m usually the one pining for her own Ikea desktop salt-lick. But the holidays are coming, and my palate is way ahead of the Bay’s Christmas window dressers. How can I concentrate with sleigh-bells ringing in my ears and thoughts of chocolate advent calendars - dose-a-day methadone clinics for chocolate addled brains – getting in the way? No chestnuts though, roasted or otherwise. I’m allergic to tree nuts. Therein lies the problem.

What sick, discriminatory urge drove the first person to mix nuts with chocolate, business with pleasure? What a waste. What a tease. Like this morning… when, just as my craving was peaking, I discovered two boxes of chocolates on our office kitchen counter. Oh sweet relief? One was chocolate covered almonds; the other was the biggest tease of all: Turtles. Ever since that one magical Christmas long ago, when I found a stash of Peanut-Turtles hidden on the bottom shelf of a Shoppers Drug Mart in Ottawa, every ‘pecan’ box has been its own disappointment.

I didn’t panic. I just did the one thing I’ve been tempted to do ever since I can remember:  The Loophole. Yes, I nibbled, ever so delicately, around the nuts. In theory, brilliant… In practice? I’m still alive, aren’t I (touch wood). What’s a little lip tingle in the grand scheme of things? People pay thousands for Angelina Jolie’s pucker. My genetics are primed to give me one for free. Nothing like the tiniest hint of anaphylactic action to sweeten a Thursday morning.

An immortal quote for a not so immortal moment

I found this gem of a quote in the back of The Calgary Sun:

“What you love – becomes your master.”

“Would you agree?” I asked my ever-so-wise husband.

“Oh, yes.” He smiled at me, and kept smiling until I figured out why.

Got a man? Go ahead and take advantage of him!

It’s no wonder men have been feeling emasculated and underappreciated. Their value in our culture has been steadily depreciating ever since Rosie picked up her riveter. We women have come to judge our mates’ usefulness in terms of dishes washed or feet massaged, rather than recognizing, and celebrating, their uniquely masculine qualities. Go ahead, take advantage of a husband! We forget how useful they can be when we’re faced with a stubborn pickle jar, or a set of chilly sheets. Sometimes, a gal just needs something solid to lean on whilst she ties her shoes.

***

It was 6am on a Saturday morning when I threw four generations of feminism to the wind and finally called for help. “Geeeorge, can you come to the bathroom for a sec?”

I heard him groan, then sigh, then drag himself out of the cozy bed in the next room - where he’d generously been donating his time to the warming of sheets. The man knew better than to ask me, Why? I’m a writer; the occasional crisis, existential or otherwise, is part of my job description. He came around the corner, my knight in shining… um… um… Anyways, he was as prepared as any less-than-dressed, half asleep man can be when trudging to the rescue.

George is a fellow who takes things in stride. Finding his half-naked wife squatting over the bathroom sink with a broom braced against the far wall didn’t seem to faze him in the slightest. I, on the other hand, was mortified. How, I ask, can one ever regain one’s position as an object of desire after having been caught in such a ridiculously undesirable position?

There we were, our own prehistoric human display in the heavily linoleumed museum of our apartment, me with my blue plastic (microfiber tipped) spear and him with his cro-magnon brow furrowing deeper by the second. He kept the disgruntled, glazed look as I explained that there was a GIANT spider under the head of the broom and that I was too scared to check if it was dead.

My brave husband humored me. He took over at the broom handle and waited till I’d scurried down the hall before lifting the head off the wall.

“Is it dead?” I called from the distant safety of the living room.

“I don’t know,” he answered slowly. ”There’s nothing there.”

He was right. There was no trace of the spider, no stray limbs, no tell tale smear. After a thorough examination, I turned to George and said those seven magical words: ”Let us never speak of this again.” He nodded, and we both went back to bed, into those lovely pre-warmed sheets.

Later in the day, I thought I saw the same spider creeping behind the toilet, but I left it alone. Sure, it’s great to take advantage of your man, even healthy for his masculine pride, but it’s my own pride I’m worried about. Ever try sucking in your gut while squatting on a counter wearing ratty granny panties? No? Can’t think why not? My kingdom for a loincloth! Now, let us never speak of this again.

Just be thankful your invite got lost in the mail!

If you see this sign... You'd better watch out!

Starts out all innocent...

Then someone invites a friend...

Then the friends start adding up...

And pretty soon you've got a real party!

I came across this charming ‘cow tree’ in New Brunswick last month. There was magic in that warm August air, and I couldn’t resist bringing some back to Calgary to share with all my readers. Of course, the ‘real’ lesson here is that the inherent romance of some settings can even, on the rare occasion, transend species. Oh Newton, how different your future (and all of ours!) might have been if you’d planted yourself under a cow tree on that sunny afternoon in Lincolnshire.

I know I shouldn’t blog about people at work, but…

It has come to my attention that four out of this company’s sixteen employees – a full 25% – are wearing glasses held together by quintessentially nerdist means. I know we are a geophysical data processing firm, but seriously! I mean really, could we get any more cliché:

Culprit 1: Scotch tape (keeping it simple with what’s at hand)

Culprit 2: Plastic shrink-wrap sleeve reinforced with Scotch tape (because I’m – yes, of course I’m on this list too – an all or nothing kind of gal, in my loves, in my dreams, and apparently in my DIY eyewear repairs)

Culprit 3: Electrical tape (for a more discreet look, because one can never sacrifice style)

Culprit 4: An ungainly silver ball of soldering (because one must have style before one can sacrifice it)

I don’t dare rank us in terms of nerdiness, but you’re welcome give it a try. Oh, and sorry #4, but look on the bright side; I’m sure your repair will outlast all of ours. And anyways, there’s something to be said for a touch of asymmetrical nerd bling – Jay-Z would be proud~wink.

Why I don’t ride the bus to work…

I woke up to a grey morning today. The sky was grey, my sweater was grey, and my threadbare brown ‘cozy’ hoodie (because when the weather won’t make the effort, why should I?) has been verging on grey for years. I stepped out the door, already late, into a grey drizzle. It was a bus morning.

The rush hour bus is a grim way to start any day, stopping and starting and stopping and starting, all through downtown gridlock. But today, there was no way around it. I rolled up my torn cuffs as discreetly as I could in a bus full of business suits and shiny shoes, and stood by the back doors to wait for my stop.

I was well on my way to daydreaming myself out of my funk when the bus slowed and settled by the curb. I pushed the doors, but they didn’t budge. I pushed again, and jiggled the long handles… nothing. The bus hissed and I felt the jolt of the flyweel kicking in. Great, just great.

“Back doors,” I called out. The bus jerked forward. “Back doors, please!” I shouted over the crowd, who had all turned their heads to watch.

The bus driver glared at me in his mirror. I shook the doors again and glared back.

His answer came back biting: “Could you at least let me get to the bus stop first.”

This is why I walk to work ~ sigh.