'Twas The Night Before Christmas

I have not posted in forever. I'd like to sight lack of time and an overload of "shit" on my proverbial plate, but as of 10AM this morning, I started my Christmas Holiday and as usual, the turn of events has left me rather inspired to say the least.

This is my first Christmas, since having children, without them. This is the year the Ex gets them and I am left on Christmas Eve bereft of the frantic preparations and hyper children that I have grown accustomed to.

At first, I assumed everything would be fine; I had actually planned on doing nothing on Christmas Eve or Christmas day, preferring to simply pretend that Boxing Day, the day I will get them, is Christmas and making the fuss then. I arranged with my Grandma, famous for never straying from tradition's path, to postpone Christmas feast to Boxing Day so the kids could have a piece of tradition. This was a feat of enormous proportion that I singlehandedly managed to make happen. I was prepared to charade my way past Christmas day.

And then my Mom asked me what time I was coming over on Christmas Day.

"Oh, I'm not coming over on Christmas Day; I'll just stay home."

"WHAT?!?!?!?!?!"

"Yeah, I won't have the kids and I don't really feel like doing anything, so I'll just stay home."

"By YOURSELF?!"

"Yeah, everyone else will be with their families."

I should add in here that my brother Chef has just recently moved across the country to be with his Lovely Fiancee; this should clarify the rest of the exchange.

"Oh. So. Just because you won't have your kids means I have to spend Christmas without MY kids? You're the only kid I have left here so you will be coming over on Christmas Day!"

"But I don't want to!"

"What are you going to do?"

"Um. Sulk Nothing. Maybe go to the Casino."

I should also add that she's an addictions counsellor who's had training in the field of problem gambling and I get the impression from her that no amount of gambling is classified as "OK" in her books.

"THE CASINO???!!!!?!??!?!?!?!"

"Um. Yeah..." (Imagine my voice being much smaller and not as convinced.)

"LISTEN! My SON is on the other side of the country and YOU will not be spending CHRISTMAS day at a CASINO! You will be spending it with your FAMILY!"

She made a valid argument and I had to admit that it was a better alternative. Honestly, it was nice to be wanted. nonetheless, I carried on, not feeling like the day itself was such a big deal since my real Christmas was going to be a day late.

Sure enough, this week has gone by without much holiday stress; I haven't had to rush as much as usual (sure, a huge reason for that is because I haven't really been able to rush out and shop, being a single parent and all. Last year's Christmas was brought to us by a very handy shopping spree won over the radio - Hells Yeah! But strangely, I wasn't able to replicated that for this year). Several friends checked in with me to make sure I had plans for this evening. "No one should be alone on Christmas Eve!" I had honestly never thought of it that way, only because I never had been. Of course, I would have made the offer to any friend in the same situation, but I somehow didn't think it important for me. I really didn't think it was a big deal.

I went about, running errands, got home mid afternoon, watched TV and did my nails; more than I could ever accomplish on a regular day without the kids and slowly got ready to go to my good friend's open house. I got into the car and hit the highway, wishing I had a better windshield fluid reservoir and then suddenly burst into tears.

What?

Oh. apparently it DOES matter that it's Christmas Eve and that my kids aren't with me. Oh. So I drove in slight shock, because I really thought that the day didn't matter, but I was flooded my years of memories of traditions of what "We" used to do on Christmas Eve, of the happy moments and many of the painful moments and I grieved for it. I arrived at my friends doorstep and had myself a small "moment" in her entranceway.

We decorated cookies, drank warm applecider and red wine, warmed tourtiere up and greeted everyone as they came in the door. I didn't know everyone, but everyone was together. It was the creation of a new tradition, a break from the norm. I stayed for a while and took my leave, still in a bit of a sad place. Once home, I got a message to go join another friend and her family.

This is a family I've known for years; I worked for them for what seemed like an eternity at the time, became great friends with their oldest son and have had a great deal of respect for them ever since. I learned a great work ethic from them and as I sat in their living room, surrounded by familiar people as more "employees" arrived, I was struck by the legacy these people have created. This is a couple who is known throughout the village as being hard workers (Hard-asses) and that they expect a great deal out of their staff. I worked my longest shift ever with them (18hours waitressing!) and yet here they are, joyfully surrounded by family and employees, past and current.

I realized then how lucky I am to be included in moments like these. Maybe it's just the eggnog talking, maybe I'm on a Christmas crack sugar high, but I'm so grateful to 1, have been thought of by so many different friends and 2, to have been included in these two different gatherings. I feel like my experience of the Christmas spirit has grown and my heart is most definitely warmed by it. I may have even duplicated the Grinch's heart growing two sizes too big.

In the morning, I will sleep in and then I will get ready to spend the rest of the day with my Mom, Grandma and my Dad. It will be a quiet day and I will be grateful because I am surrounded by people I love, just like today. The day after that, I will get my kids back and i will spoil them as best I can, extend the crap out of their Christmas, help make new memories for them and it will be good. Yes indeed, it will be good.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a Good Night.

Crisis of Faith and Justice Served

Vigilante [vij-uh-lan-tee] –noun
1. a member of a vigilance committee.
2. any person who takes the law into his or her own hands, as by avenging a crime.
-Adjective
3. done violently and summarily, without recourse to lawful procedures: vigilante justice.

“Lead us not into temptation…”

Let’s be honest here; how many times have you had just the perfect, most delicious piece of revenge you wanted to execute? The sheer fantasy of it could keep you going for quite some time, but in the end, many of us let go and pray that Karma takes her time to make a special delivery in your favour.

My brother Cooke shared with me, a perfect example earlier this week.

Over the summer, he worked as a kitchen manager and chef for a local Greek restaurant that, for the sake of avoiding libelous charges, I will not name save to say that it’s name does evoke a certain “smell” if you will.

He took this new responsibility to heart and enthusiastically undertook many of its various aspects in stride, even appearing on a local television channel to do a cooking demonstration as part of a promotion for Greek-Fest, a local celebration of Greek culture and food. Then something bad happened; paycheques started bouncing. How long would you work without being paid?

Cooke finally left after 4 weeks of broken “I’ll bring cash over tonight!” promises and when the owner returned, instead of apologizing for an accounting error, or any explanation of some sort, threatened Cooke with legal action! He ranted at him with threats of everything he could come up with and even threw in a “You’ll never work in this town again!”

As any enraged person would, Cooke imagined a number of things he could do, but chose to take the high road. The high road is a tricky one to navigate, but for the most part, we usually feel better about it in the long run and sometimes, Karma smiles upon you.

Karma smiled mightily upon Cooke; he arrived at his new place of employment one day to find a clipping from Anne Desbrisay’s restaurant review. (She reviews local restaurants and for the most part, her word can make or break an establishment). Cooke’s heart skipped a beat as he read a very unflattering review of Greece’s Aromatic Disgrace. He was quite content to leave it at that and made his silent offer of gratitude when one day, one of his colleagues had a little story to share.

It would seem that this acquaintance of his found the lack of compensation to be beyond reprehensible and decided to get a little vigilante on the situation. He took it upon himself to visit the establishment and ordered himself a bit of a feast. Midway through the meal, when the call of nature came upon him, he trotted off to the restrooms to relieve himself and did so all over. I mean, ALL OVER. We’re talking about a cleaning crew’s worst nightmare.

While this story is vile and I can’t imagine actually carrying out such an act, I guarantee we’re all had those thoughts, we’ve all imagined brandishing the sword of justice. Cooke was amazed at how he didn’t even have to lift a finger or even ask anyone to do his bidding – AND - this Karmic retribution was served up relatively quickly.

Most of our beloved movies are about honour and justice prevailing, where the good guy finally dishes it to the bad guy and everyone cheers. I like to believe that good triumphs over evil, but the truth of the matter is that most things are not as simple as black and white or good versus bad. A coin has two sides and not one is more valuable than the other (said the Queen who’s head sat opposite a beaver).

It’s this “grey zone” that has given me somewhat of a crisis of faith over the past few months. My divorce has gotten quite ugly and while I believe myself to be a good person, I just haven’t quite been able to see the light at the end of the tunnel. After countless e-mails from the Ex calling me a leech, a bitch, a bad mother and countless other venomous tirades, my resolve is getting weak. I have been doing my utmost to keep my head high and refrain from responding or engaging these accusations and yet they continue in their steady stream of anger and hate. I felt abandoned by the Universal “whatever” that I expect to keep the scales of justice balanced and my question as to why is this happening doesn’t even begin to formulate some semblance of a response.

I recounted this to one friend and she replied “God abandons us all”, but added “We keep our vibration high, even in tough times so that God can find us again.” Stick to the high road. (I just want to clarify that I am not here to preach any particular religion to anyone, but I refer to faith more as belief in anything, as a code of ethics, standards of merit, etc. “to be of the same faith with someone concerning honesty.” This may be naïve, but I still do my utmost to stick to its principles).

Yes indeed, stick to the high road, karma will take care of it and in the long run, the “evil-doer” will dig their own grave, hang themselves with their own rope or whatever other platitude you have to say essentially the same thing. The problem is, that we often have to exercise great restraint in this “allowing” of natural occurrences to occur. You cannot plant a seed and force the plant out of the earth, you can’t yell at it to make it grow faster and having a tantrum won’t make it bear fruit before its ready. It all requires patience. The valley that lies beyond the city of patience is one that I refer to as “Restraint”. I have been exercising great restraint throughout this entire process that the effort it requires is exhausting me.

While I wait for the Court’s Justice to be executed, I must hold back a veritable floodgate so that I can keep my foothold on the highroad. All of the factors, the constant badgering and abusive BS calls upon a very primitive force within me. I know the Ex has been counting on this very fact. My sincere dislike of injustice combined with this roiling force builds and the number of troops required to keep the walls fortified grows larger, this high road has gotten narrower and sure has a lot of pot holes in it.

The faithful person in me waits for Justice:

justice [juhs-tis] - noun
1-the moral principle determining just conduct.

The vigilante in me excercises restrain from delivering her own brand of justice:

justice [juhs-tis] - noun
1-the administering of deserved punishment or reward.

Simply because these are times when despite the darkness, I must believe the light *is* at the end of this tunnel. In this darkness, judgment can be clouded and who knows what sits on the other side of the coin other than my beaver.

(Many thanks to Mike Rooth for his rendition of me as a mercenary; check out my guns!)

Sometimes I'm a Giant Jerk

First off, I'd like to say that my iPhone is awesome, but the problem is that when I come to use this old-girl of a laptop, I actually expect it to be as awesome as my touch screen iPhone and it's not. Sorry laptop, your random dropping of vowels despite my typing of them has gown old. Your days are numbered and I am working on manifesting a Mac. It's true.

Second, I find Ellen very funny.

Third, I can sometimes be a jerk. It's true. I've mentioned wanting to be an asshole before, but I can honestly say that I've never wanted to be a jerk. Events over the past week however, have shown me that I sometimes am. (Holy hell! I'm tempted to just leave my blog as is without correcting the missing letters that I *do* hit with my fingers, but it doesn't register. Every other vowel sometimes!!)

Last week, I made my way over to the bank; something I don't have to o very often, but this particular day, I did. I stood in line, waiting silently a one does when I felt someone step in lie behind me. But not only did this person step into line "behind" me, but I suddenly became aware that this person was standing within my person space. My personal zone was calling out a red alert when I actually had the "boobs in your back" happen.

Not wanting to freak out in public, I extended one foot and slowly pulled myself into a more comfortable distance from the offending space-infringer. It wasn't 15 seconds before she was back in my space. Very slowly and nonchalantly, I turned my head and came face to face with a woman's face stubble; never a good thing, but at that very moment, she began to holler at a teller that was clear across the premises.

"HI SUE! HOW ARE YOU TODAY? IS YOUR SON ON HOLIDAYS? DOES HE HAVE A SUMMER JOB?"

At this point, I realized that this person had a mental disability, which I can most certainly respect and did the mot PC thing I could and did the old one-foot-slow-scootch another time. Meanwhile, my new found shadow continued her very public conversation with Sue. That's when I made the mistake of looking at Sue.

Sue stood there, kindly keeping a straight face. I looked up at her hair that was this strange mass of what can only be described as a basket of hairnets shaped like a meringue. This, combined with the hollering behind me, was too much. I jammed my head downward to hide my silent giggle.

Once I had composed myself and felt it safe to look up,

"I'M GOING TO A BBQ ON SATURDAY... MY NEPHEW WANTS TO BE JUST LIKE MICK JAGGER..."

I made unfortunate eye contact with the teller immediately i front of me. The minute his eyes met mine, he cracked a giant grin, hunched his shoulders over and turned away to "go count bills". That was it. I started to giggle and I couldn't stop. I hid my face and pretended to yawn, but my God, this was funny. A woman invading my personal space, yelling at Sue with the basket of hairnets on her head, I couldn't hold back. I was that jerk.

I know we all have our moments, but it seemed my week was full of them; in the midst of trying to impart some great kernel of wisdom and advice to a friend who mentioned the "chicken and the egg" to which I replied all knowingly "No one knows which came first, but what we do know is that there are chickens and there are eggs; both of them are good to eat." After a silent pause in the conversation, I cleared my throat and acknowledged my analogy-fail. "I'm sorry, I don't know what the hell I'm talking about; I'll shut up now."

Now if I thought I was having an off week at that point, I had no idea what I was in for today. Having the week off with the kids, we headed off t the local Mini-Putt range for some late afternoon fun. I've never played real golf, let alone mini-putt, I have no clue how to properly grip a putter or anything of the sort, so I wanted to make sure the kids had low expectations. We set off and did a couple holes, people ahead of us and people behind us. On the third hole, I putted too hard and the ball rocketed out of the course. The young boy behind me piped up, "You hit the ball to hard Ma'am!" I smiled at him, nodded and turned back to the game. He turned to his mother, "It's true, she hit the ball too hard. She needed to hit it more gently so as to stay in bounds."

Awesome. I had my own peanut gallery.

We got to the next hole and as I positioned myself, the kid pipes up again, "Make sure you don't hit the ball too hard again! Keep your head down." I slowly turned around and gave him "a look" and said, "Wow! You're full of feedback aren't you?" My voice was dripping in sarcasm, my smile clearly false.

"He's autistic, he'll say everything that happens out loud."

If I could have fit myself into one of the golf holes, I would have. Right then and there, anything to disappear.

"I had no idea, I'm so sorry! I thought he was taking pleasure in how bad I was playing!"

Fortunately, this woman as not a jerk; she was a very understanding and kind person. She laughed, she softened. We all softened. We began to play together, lending commentary to each others game, high-fiving on good shots and even cheering the hole-in-ones each of us got.

I left our excursion richer from the experience, humbled in some ways. I couldn't help but wonder if the Girl's fall into one of the water displays was karmic punishment, but I suspect if that was the case, it would have been me to take the dive.

Sometimes I think we can all be giant jerks, it's when it becomes a habit that we need to put the kaibosh onto things. So I'm going to click the reset button and maybe go make an omelet. Or maybe have some chicken wings, because while we don't know whether the ch
icken o the egg came first... Oh forget it.

Zen, Tact and Diplomacy

It's in moments of extreme change, fatigue an stress that I am at my most vulnerable without realizing it. I neglect my defences and leave myself open to attack at my weakest point. And so this is what I allowed shortly after my move into a new home.

The move itself is worthy of at least 3 blogs, but I will leave that for now.

My new home as a different access space; I'm no longer protected by a windowless door to anonymous stairs that is unwelcoming to unwelcome visitors. Far from it in fact; I have a nice deck with a big window that my friends can peer into when they arrive and I welcome them with smiles and laughter. I have a huge yard that has a tree swing, a gooseberry bush and red and black currant bushes, several lilac trees that I can't wait to see bloom next spring and apparently one left-behind cat that I've been feeding and reluctantly giving some love snuggles to while I await the previous tenants to come and take it back. I love cats, but am reluctant to add something more to my life to take care of and want to make sure that Napmaster can still visit without the need for her epi-pen.

The downside to my awesome deck and window is that anyone can walk up to it. And they did. The Ex walked right in and surveyed my goods. Not those goods, he doesn't feel the need to do that now that he's got the the New Girl (and porn). Verbal intimidation is a tough one to deal wit because you're not always sure it's happening at the time. But it did and I proceeded to melt down from both exhaustion and exasperation.

"What's all the swearing about?"

A friend asked me after several rant-like Facebook status postings (Oh Facebook, what fun it is to air grievances publicly, but then again, so is this blog!). My coping skills had been compromised; I had let myself get sucked into an old game just as I had stepped foot back into my hometown, old wounds flared up.

"Breathe. Sing. Breathe. Repeat."

It's useful to have a voice of calm in the eye of a storm (whether it be internal or external). I've avoided the storm for quite sometime, but there I was, hair flapping in the wind, inner-banshee howling away. My impending changes had garnered a string of venomous verbal deliveries. Had my success personally offended him? What should have been an entirely positive and empowering moment for me, had been soiled. I had let this happen. In the midst of such a positive experience, where I was shown such an outpouring of help, support and love, I had allowed myself to be blindsided.

This latest manifestation has left some remnants for me to sort through, nothing so completely obvious that I could take a good look at it and say to myself, "Yes, I know what this is, this is the giant piece of crap that you threw at me on this particular day and I can happily do without; away with this." It's more like the piece of Lego you step on in the middle of the night on your way to the bathroom. It has really sharp corners and hurts immediately upon contact, pain subsides, then returns days later in the form of a deep bruise in the center of your heel on the bottom of your foot. My life is like a rogue piece of Lego? Yeah, that's my analogy; what I mean is that you don't realize it's there, it surprises you with it's pain and you think it's better, but winds up lingering.

A week and a half went by and I still felt the heaviness of the exchanges. I finally had a couple of days off with the chance to get to the cottage with the kids and took advantage of it. I'm usually in the river by the end of June, but here it was, a week and a half into July and I had hardly even dipped my toe in. At the urging of the Girl, I finally lowered myself into the glacial water she and the Boy had spent he previous 30 minutes splashing around in. I felt every orifice tighten and pucker with horror and eventually relaxed after my body slowly froze got used to the temperature. After the requisite amount of playing around with the kids, I took leave of them and went for a long swim across the bay.

Last summer, while I stayed with G3 in exile from my house, I swam this bay every day, twice a day. It was my haven, my moment to myself before crowding into the spare room with both kids. I had forgotten the way the water soothed frayed nerves, how the waves rocked me gently and melted away stress. I began my swim and began to chat with the Universe; began to let go of the tension that had made it's home deep in my shoulders and down my spine, began to unwind after weeks of focused and concentrated stress. The cool water splashed at my face and wet the ends of my hair, refreshed and melted everything away. The sun danced and sparkled on the surface and lulled me away into peace.

Time heals all wounds and affords you the luxury of looking at events with a 20/20 hindsight; preserving the learnings and letting go of the useless resent. The more that is let go of, the lighter one becomes, both figuratively and literally from what I've experienced. But there is still a ways for me to go. There is much to carve out and many lines to be drawn in the sand. In my highest intent, I wish to do this with dignity and self respect, but it's difficult to achieve this at times when emotions are flaring.

Secret Agent Man (SAM) shared his thoughts, stating that diplomacy was the best approach.

di·plo·ma·cy (dĭ-plō'mə-sē) n.
1- The art or practice of conducting international relations, as in negotiating alliances, treaties, and agreements.
2- Tact and skill in dealing with people. See Synonyms at tact.

"Diplomacy is one of the many stages of war.", he said. I asked for further definition and after a few thoughts about it here and there, came to the conclusion that it's just a process of getting what you want while maintaining a smile on your face; a "nice" way of exerting force. That rather appeals to me, although SAM insists that both sides can still win when diplomacy is used. Admittedly, this disappointed me a little, but I'm sure it'll pass in time, when the winds within me calm.

So for now, I shall focus on the feel of the water, practice the skills of tact, diplomacy and see what happens next.

On The Dating Boat

After finally dipping my toe back into the dating waters earlier this year, I’ve discovered the joys, or at least the laughs of the dating world.

The first thing about dating as a single Mom is timing. For those without children, it’s easy to have a spur of the moment rendezvous, but for me, I have to arrange for child care, which generally means asking my parents or Grandmother, which inevitably means I’ll have a curfew. This is rather embarrassing at 32. Especially if the date is going particularly well, say there’s some making out going on (yeah, I said making out. Making out in your 30’s is way more fun that in your teens; since I was married for my 20’s, there was very little of it, so I can’t comment on making out in your 20’s, but so far, both parties seem to know a bit more about anatomy in their 30’s, ahem, just saying). It goes a little something like this.

“Dinner was lovely, thank you very much!”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it, what scintillating conversation!”

“Indeed; I’m so glad we came up with the solution to world peace.”

“I feel a personal sense of accomplishment from it, it’s true.”

Grope, grope, grope.

“Oh, will you look at that! Its 10pm, I have to get home or my Dad’s gonna be pissed!”

It’s a bit of a buzz kill to say the least, but a buzz kill that’s part of my reality, so one I'm trying to become somewhat Zen with if not quite “comfortable” with.

The second thing about it is the type of guy that’s single in his 30’s or early 40’s or, I’ve discovered, the sneaky ones in their 50’s that pretend they’re in their 40’s. What’s this? How can someone in their 50’s pretend to be in their 40’s?

Enter artsy, blurry photography and Photoshop. Some people are really good at Photoshopping hair! And before I get accused of being ageist, I’d like to point out that my Dad is in his 50’s and I draw the line at dating someone who is a mere handful of years younger than my Dad than he is to my age.

Enter JollyRoger (let's call him JR for short), a rather interesting individual with whom I’d exchanged many witty online conversations with when the subject of actually meeting came up. I agreed and we decided to meet in a bar downtown. Based on JR’s conversations and photos, I had the distinct impression that he was in his early 40’s. I draw the line at early 40’s for reasons mentioned previously; too close to my parent’s age and it gets creepy. The first thing I noticed about JR was that he was mysteriously lacking hair, despite several pictures to the contrary (and I’ve nothing against a hairless scalp, if you’re bald, be bald and proud, don’t Photoshop a combover onto your dome because I'll clearly notice when I meet you in person), and the second was that he looked older than the assumed age. He also had the clammiest hands I’d ever shaken.

First impressions are important. We chatted politely and conversation somehow led us to name dropping. He dropped some names of people my parents know.

“Um, How old are you???”

Awkward pause.

“I’m 52.”

“Wow.” I replied, rather stunned, “You’re older than me...” I like to state the obvious, but JR apparently wanted to deny the obvious!

“But I’m not really, age is just a number, I don’t feel 52.”

At 52, he is a mere 4 years younger than my father and a mere 2 years younger than my mother and while age is a number, I wasn’t thinking that it was a number I was willing to ignore. The rest of the date deteriorated rather quickly after that. The great thing about this is though, that it prompted the best quote ever to come from my Dad. I told him the whole story, much to his horror, and even included the part about the clammy hands, to which he said, “You know what they say about clammy hands, don’t you? Clammy scrotum.”

I want that on a shirt. And then I can send it to JR.

Many years ago, my good friend Hans and his girlfriend at the time sent me out on a blind date with “This guy that would be just perfect” for me. I went on that date and then called Hans back to find out why the hell he though a gay guy would be perfect for me.

“He’s gay?”

“He doesn’t know it yet, but he sure as hell is.”

“That explains a lot.”

It didn’t explain why he thought he’d be perfect for me, but whatever, there were no second dates. Little did I know that I’m also the Closeted Homo Whisperer. Before I get any flack for being a HomoPhobe, let me tell you that I'm not, I just don't want to date a Gay Man. I also don't want to be the one to open the door to his closet and force him out.

Enter the HairyTuna (it's a long story, but we'll call him HT). HT took a shining to me, again online (hm, maybe this is the source of the issue) and after many chats and many requests to meet on his part, I finally agreed. Back to the downtown bar I headed, the Bartender smiled and nodded my way and asked me if I wanted my usual (maybe I'm embellishing the story, and maybe I need to pick a new bar to go to) and I sat in wait for the Tuna.

The thing with pictures is that you don't see someone's mannerisms in them. Mannerisms are important. HT arrived in a flustered state, looked at me hesitantly, then sat down in a flurry of arm gestures.

"Oh. My. GOD! The bus took forEVER! I hope you haven't been waiting long!"

Before me sat the most effeminate man I'd met in a very long time. His fingers splayed as though he'd had a fresh manicure, his eyes aflutter and lisp snaking off his tongue and slapping me upside the head.

You have got to be kidding me.

The bartender came over, looked at him, then looked at me, then back at him and gave me a look that said, "He's with... you?"

I have no idea what we talked about, I spent the whole time trying to assess how long was long enough to have been chatting to be considered polite before leaving . I had unfortunately not enabled my getmoo account and had foolishly forgotten to tell a friend where I was and to randomly phone, so I resorted to yawning. I yawned repeatedly 'till he asked me if I was ok.

"I dunno, I think I'm coming down with some sort of flu... Oh God! I hope it's not Swine Flu! I should maybe leave. You should go buy some hand sanitizer. NicetomeetyouBye!"

I'm pretty sure the bartender gave me a knowing look as I hastily paid my tab and practically ran out.

So it's back to the drawing board! A year ago, a friend had told me that I would actually find dating fun at some point, I didn't believe him at the time, but I now see that it's true. They're not all winners, but they definitely leave me with a story to tell the next day. Mwahahahahahaha. I mean... thank you.

Pot Luck Dinners

My last post got me thinking about Pot Luck dinners (you will find out why later). I enjoy the pot luck, not as much as I enjoy the come-over-and-you-will-be-fed-without-having-to-cook dinner, but I find the experience is generally a positive one. You get to make one dish, go somewhere and feast on a bunch of other dishes that other people made.

I used to be waaayyy into cooking and baking, but seem to have lost my touch. I discovered this unfortunate reality this morning while trying to pry the chocolate cake I had baked out of the pan only to wind up with a bunch of mangled chunks of cake instead. Oh well, to quote Antoinette's father, "Icing fixes everything; it's the Spackle of the baking world." We proved this hypothesis rather efficiently whilst icing the 5 million tiny cupcakes she had baked for her wedding, many of them having baked misshappenly, unbeknownst to everyone because of the magic of icing.

I have to admit that my pride is a little wounded at my epic cake failure; I have created many a masterpiece from flour, eggs, butter and sugar but stopped trying so hard after I spent 8 hours of toil on my infamous Harry Potter cake only to have the birthday boy inform me that he "Didn't like it that much." My efforts have since experienced a slow decline, but every once in a while, I rise to the occasion.

But I find that I no longer know what my "specialty dish" is. You know that dish, the one that *you* make and no one else makes it quite like you do and everyone hopes you bring that one thing to the pot luck? My Grandmother is the Queen of this type of thing. She has several "famous" recipes that she has solely because she left Edmonton. To this day, she threatens to "snatch me bald-headed" if I share her famous Ginger Snap recipe, that was given to her by her friend Myrna when she left for Ottawa. Myrna reasoned that it was OK for her to have it since they would never show up to the same event with the same cookies, which is tantamount to wearing the same outfit. It was regular practice to pass along a recipe with a few altered ingredients so that no one else could quite duplicate your famous dish.

So what are good things to bring to Pot Lucks? Bread and cheese are always winners, squares of any kind, salads are pretty easy and BBQs are the simplest because you just BYOM (or T(ofu) for the vegetarians out there). And some people would say that in the winter time, a good stew is the perfect sharing meal. This is where I beg to differ.

When I was a teenager, my parents had an interesting group of friends and there were often pot lucks held at our place. These friends sometimes brought other friends that we didn't know as well, which is fine; its always good to meet new people no? This one particular evening, we gathered around the counter, filling our plates with various offerings and began to indulge. This one particular woman watched everyone quite carefully as they partook of the hearty stew she had brought. After most of the guests had sampled her dish, she piped up, "So, what do you think of my stew?" I looked over at my Dad who was about to shovel a forkful into his mouth and then paused. The crowd murmured positive feedback and the woman beamed with what I first thought was pride, but immediately realised was EVIL!

"It's not actually beef stew, it's raccoon!"

What. The. Fuck? WHO DOES THAT?

At 16, even I knew a good list of what NOT to bring to a pot luck:

• Toe-cheese cake
• lips and ears in blankets
• Monkey brains
• Pre-chewed cookies
• RACCOON STEW!

The look of horror that spread over everyone's face was instantaneous, most had already swallowed the offending bite and proceeded to turn a lovely shade of green.

"Yes, raccoon! I found it on the side of the road and thought it would be a shame for it to go to waste! Many people don't realize that the highway can be a veritable Supermarket!"

At this point, my Dad had quietly disposed of his entire plate of food. You know how when dogs are quiet, but they observe every move you make, that's the time to be concerned? Well, my Dad is like that, when he gets very quiet, it's time to worry, or even run. I don't recall what he said to her specifically, but I do recall her never coming to our house again. I learned a valuable lesson that day. Some people are weirdos. But not the kind of weirdos that are good to have around. And if you want to stop hanging around with certain people, a good raccoon stew is the way to go.

The Purpose of Life

My friend Sweetness got a sweet new set of wheels a couple of weeks ago; it's sexy and fast and everyone stops to stare when she zips by. I have wheel envy when I think of her wheels. The other day however, she had a little incident that got me thinking about the purpose of life.

It seems that during the course of the day, whilst parked in waiting for Ms. sweetness to return behind its wheel; her lovely vehicle was highjacked by what I refer to as the Gatineau Hills-Rat, otherwise known as the Ground Hog.

This particular Rodent-terrorist had made it's way into her engine, I believe, and when she returned to her new baby at the end of the day, the frightened rodent made a narrow escape before meeting an untimely demise.

Had this been my vehicle, its fate would have been much worse.

You see, while I am still searching for my life's purpose, I have come to discover what my secondary purpose is: I am the unwitting Grim Reaper of the WildLife Kingdom.

I believe that everyone has a life's purpose, big or small. My friend Dixie and I have discussed this many times and while Dixie's life purpose is, in my opinion, clearly defined, I have struggled to know what mine is. Interestingly though, in these conversations, Dixie revealed to me that on top of our primary life's purpose, we all have a secondary life's purpose. She's wise that way; she explained that hers was to give directions. What? It seems that wherever she goes, people stop her and ask her for directions, even if she is not from there, even if there is an information booth or person with a sandwich board that says "Directions Given Here" within a couple of feet of her. I know this may seem like a stretch, but think about your day to day and think about something that people continuously ask you to do or that perpetually happens to you and it's probably your secondary life's purpose. It's like the knick-knack of the life's purpose world.

My Mom's secondary life purpose is to find amazing clothes in second-hand stores. She can go into a second hand store and find high end designer outfits for as little as $2! I can go into the same store and all I will find is a Q-tip on the floor and the one outfit that looks like someone had been murdered in it, then I'll get really itchy and have to leave empty handed.

I've come to the recent conclusion that my Dad's secondary purpose is to narrowly avert death in the strangest of circumstances. He's had a couple mild heart attacks, been struck by lightning and this past weekend, did NOT die in a propane explosion. Pardon? It's true; he was at this cottage he goes to each spring that has no electricity, but has a propane stove, lights and fridge. On day two of his trip, he went out fishing and realized he had forgotten his lunch and headed back to camp. Upon arrival, he could hear this chirping and only realized that it was the smoke detector as he got closer and noticed smoke billowing out of the cottage. He entered to find it filled with smoke and went to the fireplace, one would normally assume that this is the logical place to look for a fire, but when that failed to be the location, he ran to the gas stove. Still no fire! He then looked over at the refrigerator to find 3 foot flames coming out the front! If you're wondering how he could have missed the flames, it's because the smoke, at this point, was incredibly thick.

Propane is highly explosive.

He exited the cottage and walked, hacking like a smoker, to the large propane tank at the back of the cottage, turned off the valve and then went back to extinguish the fire. No explosions, one alive Dad and a fridge full of fod that tasted like burned tire. Yum.

So back to my secondary life's purpose. What is this about me being the Grim Reaper of the WildLife Kingdom (GRWK)?

It all started when I first got my drivers licence. I was driving home after a particularly late night at the Alpengruss, winding my way along River Road when Peter Cottontail hippity-hopped in front the GrannyMobile (a fine 1984 Ford Escort in immaculate condition - until I took possession of it that is). Of course, I braked! I braked hard. I then turned off the ignition and ran out to make sure the bunny was ok. Only, I couldn't find the bunny; it must have hopped away... But then I noticed the long smear of bunny I had spread along the road. I'd made bunny butter. About 4 meters of it. I drove home crying the whole way.

Since then, I've evicerated raccoons, chipmunks, a porcupine (and that's a really terrible kind of thud FYI; the kind that makes your stomach flipflop really badly), countless frogs and the starcrossed lovers that were the spring-fling birds that playfully flew in front of my car, and never emerged, only to be permanently embeded into the grill of the little green Echo (or Kharon's Ferry to fauna's River Styx). I've narrowly avoided being killed by a deer that ricocheted off the GrannyMobile and successfully swerved to avoid a young Black Bear running out of the Gatineau Park last year, but what really confirmed my secondary purpose was the unfortunate, yet fateful termination of one of the afore-mentioned Rodent-Terrorists.

Cruising home after a long day of work, I wound along a back road and noticed a car parked along the shoulder a good ways ahead. There was a person standing behind the car, holding something and then I realized that there was a smaller something, bounding in my direction along the side of the road. I got closer and noticed that it was a ground hog, making a mad dash along the edge. As my path intersected with the rodent's, it suddenly beelined (of its own free will) under my car! A complete 90 degree course correction! My back tire made the familiar *squd* of extermination and I looked into my rearview mirror to see the creature pinwheeling down the yellow line. As I turned my gaze back to the front view, I saw that the person who was behind the car, was a woman. She was holding a cage. A cage that had just released the very ground hog I just ran over. Her eyes met mine, her shoulders slumped, she turned and placed the cage back into the trunk of her car, her animal-friendly catch-and-release rodent disposal program had been thwarted. She was defeated.

It was that day that I finally embraced my secondary life's purpose. That ground hog knew its time had come, it knew the reaper cometh and in its dash, turned and surrendered to sweet eternity.


Embrace your fate. Get out of my way if you see me behind the wheel of a car.