50 People

I couldn’t just up and leave again for a few days without a parting gift, so, inspired from another’s blog (thanks Emma!) is this little ditty. 50 people I know, many of whom are somehow connected to this blog, and even some who aren’t. Care to guess which number is yours?

1) Punch buggy blue, no comebacks! More like 50 comebacks… oops, there we go again, beating up on each other in the back seat of mom’s and dad’s Oldsmobile.

2) Gouda, Gorgonzola, Gruyere. That’s the way, uh huh uh huh, I like it.

3) With the tiniest little twist on what I said about you before: She has an inner strength she does not quite realize. Yet.

4) Although I love your writing and your blog, you never bothered blogrolling me. And, you turned your comments off. What can I say except, your days here are numbered.

5) My hair, thankfully, has never been the same. Neither has my taste for inappropriate jokes.

6) We grew up together, and have always lived within 10 minutes of each other. I’m always glad to hear from you!

7) I was never one for gossip columns until you came around. Your comments on that Ricky Martin, Mark Anthony & J Lo photo had me in stitches.

8) I never thought I’d be reconnecting with a cousin I never even knew I had, halfway through my 29th year. I also didn’t expect we’d make such great friends!

9) We have been friends for years, and reconnected awhile ago during some of the worst times of our lives. We cried on each other’s shoulders, and have done our best to provide inspirational pep talks. You are everything to your daughters, and their rock in this time of confusion. Your strength astounds me. Keep fighting the good fight.

10) I am told you bake excellent pies, but we have yet to schedule a bake-off. March? April?

11) You haven’t written since November. Where have you gone?

12) Your thirst for activism and human rights inspire me to do more.

13) You call yourself tormented; I call you fabulous. You’d be my first choice for a martini date.

14) You were one of my first regular readers, and we even had the pleasure of chatting once. I’m so glad your life is heading in the direction you dreamed it would!

15) Our 12th grade Science Fair project melted into oblivion, but we still managed to bullshit our way into third place. And yes, I’m the most delinquent caller on the face of this earth!

16) I have never met you, but you are friend of #15. She told me once that you come here to read, and I want you to know that I very sincerely appreciate that. Cheers!

17) You are truly a wonderful person, and will be a huge success in the doggie business. I couldn’t be happier for you.

18) Even though we’ve never met, we both must have fabulous hair. And while you’re a wonderful writer, honey, your blog can be a bitch to get to!

19) We’ve been best friends since that fateful frosh orientation many years ago. Although you’ll probably never see this because you keep forgetting the site address.

20) You were brave enough to begin the process of rediscovering yourself, starting with the adventure of a lifetime next month. Savour every single minute, for it is a Great Beginning.

21) A mutual friend introduced us a few years ago, and we’ve gotten along famously ever since. We have yet to meet in person, but it will happen someday. I’d like to know though, where have you gone? It’s been ages, and I hope you’re doing well.

22) We work together three hours a week, and I must say, you’re a heck of a lot of fun. May we always have our Ipods and health & trash mags to entertain ourselves with – but only when the internet signals go down!

23) You’re family, and I’ve asked you to read here many times. I’ve got a feeling you’re not quite telling me the truth about being a faithful reader – we’ll know after this, though.

24) I really did want for you to be the one, even as I was writing the letter. May you find your heart someday, and may it be soon.

25) I’ve always wondered, is that wig & lipstick photo on your template really you?

26) Five words: Gym class with Miss. Casey. Good Lord.

27) You have been through more in the past few years than most people go through in their whole lives. You’re one of my bestest friends ever, though you must think me one of the crappiest friends on earth. I’m so sorry I haven’t called.

28) You’re a fireman, and tall enough to withstand me in my Miu Miu heels. Say hi to #21 for me.

29) I love your blog for its pictures and quirky nature, but have to wonder: do you ever come here to read, and if you do, why do you never comment?

30) You were my father’s friend and business associate first; despite my lackadaisical nature at writing actual letters, I have and will always consider you a very important person in my life. I truly look up to you, and hope to learn much more from you in the years to come. I hope to someday be a big an inspiration to another, as you have been to me.

31) We have shared many lives together, you and I, as many different people and in many different places. You have always been there for me, and though I didn’t know it at the time, you picked me up when I most needed it. Always, thank you.

32) Listening to you talk about her makes me giddy with happiness for you. At last, and, how wonderful. Enjoy each other.

33) You tried to destroy me. Tried. Never come near me again.

34) Magnificent hair, your trademark.

35) I love your writing and linked you long ago. Why did you never do the same for me?

36) Culinary genius. You will be the toast of this city someday.

37) You were the first ever to comment on anything I’d ever written here, but our correspondence got lost in the shuffle. I wish you the best of luck in your far away homeland.

38) Twenty-something, teacher-ish, witty and crazy fun. I’m very glad you’re here!

39) You live in one of my favourite cities, and always have the most interesting musings. Your comments make me evaluate myself, and your lyrics get me a-thinking.

40) You tried to step between mine and his short time together, but it didn’t work. It’s none of your business who I see or don’t see, or in what context I see them. Sure you’re in love with him, but do you forget you’re married? I told you about this place when I was truly in sympathy for you during your illness, and I’ve regretted it ever since. Never come back here, ever again.

41) I’m sorry for never replying after you sent me those wonderful jam recipes.

42) You’re hilarious, you have a puppy, you had surgery and now I must ask, where did you go?

43) I read your story in a book last year, and your blog was very inspirational. You were one of the first people to ever link me, and that tickled me pink. You haven’t written in months.

44) We are great friends and will always be. One of the great parts of our friendship is how you humour me and my verbal skills, so to speak. May your path be prosperous, and may you find your dreams.

45) You’ve been devotedly reading here since the very beginning, almost, and seeing your name in the comments box always makes my day. Your girls sound cute as pie.

46) You are a marvel, and a great supporter. One day, we will have a tea party in the land Down Under.

47) You’ve just started coming recently, and I love reading your stuff as much as I love seeing your name in the comments box.

48) All the one timers, you people who have dropped in here and there to let me know you’re around, thank you.

49) You are the reader(s) who come here every day, yet I never seem to hear from you. I’d love to know what you think.

50) After all these years, we found each other again. You are my forever.

See you all in a few days!

Ruby Tuesday, my partner in crime from our high school days, taught me how to play Blackjack. We were in our senior year, and devotedly played the game during the blank space on our schedules otherwise known as Study Period.

Honestly, who uses that time to actually study? And besides that, I’ve never seen any dealer shuffle cards with the speed or efficiency of Ruby Tuesday. She explained the entire game to me with all its little intricacies, and its been a fascination ever since.

I’m not a die hard gambler, though, so a Las Vegas trip is a safe bet for me. I was there once before several years back, but right as I was coming off a serious bout of fever & food poisoning. I didn’t do any drinking, slept in the air conditioned hotel room while everyone else was at the pool, and came out pale as death in all the pictures.

Online, the Vegas deals run aplenty, so it wasn’t a hard decision to finalize. Sandy has never been and, needless to say, we’re both getting more excited as our departure date gets closer. We’ll have a few days of warmer weather, spas, shopping, sightseeing, fabulous dinners and, best of all, uninterrupted each other time.

Maybe we’ll even manage to play some Blackjack on the side.

Me and Sandy, a few weeks ago:

He: Cheech...

Me: Yes Ace?

He: Want to go somewhere?

Me: Always!

He: Where do you want to go?

Me: Nope, I picked San Francisco. Your turn.

He: Welllll I’ve always wanted to go to Sin City, but you’ve already been there.

Me: Did you know I had food poisoning at the time?

He: You did?

Me: Yeah, it sucked.

He: I imagine it would.

Me: Ace?

He: Yes Cheech?

Me: Would you like to go to Vegas?

He: Okay!

Again, unterwegs. We leave Monday.

100% Real Juice: Hanging Up

Hanging Up was filmed several years ago and stars Diane Keaton, Meg Ryan, and Lisa Kudrow. It’s about the relationship three sisters have with their father and each other, and focuses on a rather turbulent time in their lives.

I didn’t like it. Your classic case of good acting, bad writing; a bland movie at best, with characters and a storyline not quite fully developed enough to impact the audience in any real way.

However, there was one unforgettable part, and here it is.

(Just for some background, Eve plans parties, Maddy is an actress, and Georgia works at Vogue. At this point in the film, Eve and Maddy are on the phone).

***

Maddy: No wonder they’re firing her if she’s running articles like that.

Eve: They’re firing her? What are you saying?

Maddy: Carlo knows this fashion photographer, and he said ad revenue is way down.

Eve: Who’s Carlo?

Maddy: Someone who happens to be important to me. Anyway, he said she’s history.

Eve: That is terrible. I really feel bad for her.

Maddy: No, me too.

Eve: Georgia. Fired.

Maddy: She’ll be devastated.

Eve: Does she know?

Maddy: I don’t know. Should we tell her?

Eve: I don’t know, Is that bad, coming from us?

Maddy: I’m not telling her. You should tell her.

Eve: Why do I have to do everything? I’m not going to do that!

(There’s a beep on Eve’s line; she’s got another call)

Eve: This is like, the umpteenth call this week. Hi, Dad.

Georgia: Eve?

(Eve going back to Maddy)

Eve: It’s her!

(She goes back to the call with Georgia)

Eve: How are you?

Georgia: I have some news.

(Eve jumps back to Maddy again)

Eve: I think it happened.

Maddy: They fired her?

(Back to Georgia)

Georgia: Are you sitting down?

Eve: Oh, God!

Georgia: Guess what? I’m starting my own magazine!

(Back to Maddy)

Maddy: What?

Eve: oh, my God!

Maddy: She was fired!

Eve: How is this possible?

(Back to Georgia)

Georgia: And guess what I’m calling it. Georgia.

Eve: Really.

(Back to Maddy)

Maddy: Didn’t I tell you?

Eve: So, she was fired.

Maddy: Well, probably.

Eve: Let’s just be happy for her. We didn’t really want her out on the street or anything.

Maddy: Did we?

Eve: She’s going to be more famous than ever.

***

Sure enough, she is.

What is the moral of this story? Woman has top notch job, woman gets fired from job, woman doesn’t miss a beat and goes to start a better, more amazing job. One she created for herself.

Let this day be full of luck, ideas, and amazing opportunities. Ones we have created for ourselves.

Oli got a gig with Australia. She will be importing textiles in the form of clothing, lingerie, accessories and socks from Down Under, and selling them to the higher end boutiques of our fair city. She’s very excited, and so am I. Fantastic work for her, and fashion at cost for me. Better yet, there could be visits abroad in our future. How cool is that?

To be dubbed worthy of this position, Oli had several meetings at the Australian consulate here. She passed each and every test with shining colours, and is now a certified Australian products wholesaler. Moreover, she got lots of free tickets and had to be in attendance for several events at – are you ready for it? – Australia Week!

Australia Week was designed to promote the products and tourism industry of said country, in other countries like this one. It was really cool too, a big tent set up with Aboriginal performers, baby crocs and Australian Cattle dogs we got to pet, samplers of wine, and a batch of really tall, really good looking rugby players.

When I look back on it now, yes, asking one of the rugby players if I could touch is ball was definitely being too forward. But hey, I was curious. I’ve never been up close and personal with a rugby ball before. Or rugby players, for that matter.

The front-and-centre spectacle of the day Oli and I were there was Mick of "Mick’s Whips". Mick is an expert whipper, cracking and flailing with astonishing accuracy. Indiana Jones ain’t got nothing on Mick. Mick’s so good at whipping he even paints with his whips, and that was the big event: with a whip in each hand, Mick created a work of art.

Australia had thought ahead, and put Mick in his own gigantic plastic bubble, just in case a whip flew astray to poke the eyes out of innocent bystanders. As Mick cracked and painted away, I noticed three girls on the other side of his bubble, early 20’s, dressed very casually and carrying lots of equipment. They were setting up a tripod and video camera, and about to film Mick.

This all seemed a little too familiar to me, especially the massive battery belts they were plugging everything into. I remembered those battery belts well, because they had weighed a ton. A quick glance of the tripod’s label, Manfrotto, took me deeper, and the fact that it was a Thursday morning confirmed everything.

These girls were Journalism students on assignment for their weekly Broadcasting class. Not only were they Journalism students, but students from my Journalism school. Six years ago, I was wearing those battery belts, and lugging those cameras on subways for the weekly Thursday newscast, every 5pm on the nose.

I hated that class, because I’d always known I was never meant to be a broadcaster. Radio was fun enough, but TV? Ugh. I’d enjoyed the filming bit, but I was definitely never meant to read from a teleprompter.

In our very Broadcasting first class ever, we were each given the task of writing up a story and then reading it to the camera, a la true anchor person style, then critiquing our performance with the entire class. I was first that day, wearing a bright green blouse, and reading my story about the skier who’d been horribly decapitated in the Rockies. Unfortunately, I’d chosen to take the, “Smile, smile, smile!” advice of the teaching assistant a little too literally, and showed my pearly whites all the way through the piece.

There I was, at a news desk, smiling my ass off and saying things like, “horrific accident,” “tragic death” and “body found in pieces.” When the assistant played the tape back for everyone to nitpick, he stopped right where I was happily saying something to the effect of, “when the skier’s head flew off”, hit the PAUSE button and asked the class,

“Now, what’s wrong with this?” And watched 29 hands fly up in the air.

Bugger.

After these girls were done filming Mick, they would wrap up their equipment and head back to the editing suites at school, to spend the rest of their day patching together a 30 second to one minute piece, complete with voiceovers. Then, they would take it to an assignment editor, who would give it the green or red light for the evening newscast, which would air live.

I watched these girls very carefully. They set up about 10 minutes into Mick’s routine, and filmed away.

Dumbasses. You weren’t here for the beginning intro. That’s when he introduced himself with two whips and flair.

They filmed for about three minutes.

That’s it? This is a half-hour demonstration. Get the really noisy whip cracks in there. You don’t even have enough for some decent B-roll, just in case.

Then they started to pack up…

Don’t be stupid. Stay, get a fucking parting shot.

… started walking to the door…

Wait for him to finish and then do a short interview on camera, what’s wrong with you?

… and left.

Idiots. Your story’s being cut.

Either I just got it back when I was a student, or I had better teachers.

Not a few minutes after witnessing the three stooges of obtuse journalism, I came across another ghost from my past: a young woman with shiny dark hair, professionally dressed and questioning the Aboriginal performers. I didn’t know her, but I knew her press pass very well; after all, hadn’t I worn one just like it a long time ago?

Europe was my second journalistic internship, my first was a 6-week gig with a very popular national news site. An internship in the industry was one of the necessary requirements before they handed you the degree.

I loved that internship. They were running low on reporters when I got there, and my superior editor gave me free range on the Lifestyles section. I covered openings, product launches, fashion shows and events all across town, meeting a lot of people and doing a crazy number of write-ups every week. When my time there was up, that editor wrote such a glowing review of my work that I almost cried.

I didn’t know if this woman was an intern or full-time reporter; they never differentiated there. She was questioning the Aboriginals and writing everything down on a sparkly notepad. “So, did you enjoy performing here? Did you enjoy your stay? Do you feel Australia will benefit from having this exhibit? Thanks, buh-bye!”

Half-ass. You didn’t even ask them any cultural questions. Why are these songs important? What are they at hoping to achieve by showing Australia’s native side? Did you know these people are the last of their kind to sing these songs and perform these dances? I do, because I saw a documentary on them last week. You didn’t connect with them at all.

Seeing all those women doing what I used to do bothered me to an extent I couldn’t even begin to describe. The students, that was one thing, but the reporter was something else. How could she have been so lackadaisical about it all? Didn’t she even care about the story? Did she know how lucky she was to be doing that at all?

Moreover, how was it that she was wearing that suit and press pass, doing lousy at such an awesome job? Meanwhile, there I was not three feet away, in my regular work clothes of jeans and a blouse, computer bag slung over my shoulder, ready to be at my job in an hour. A job I hate.

So, how did I get where I am? I settled. I got here because I settled. I was tired of rejections and getting nowhere fast in my field, therefore, I took a job “for now.” Just for the time being, I told myself. The money is good. I’ll be out of there before I know it.

Almost three years later, and I’m still in. Sure the money’s still good, but there comes a time when that doesn’t matter anymore. Especially when you see a yutz doing a monotonous job, at what used to be your job. A job you were fantastic at.

In terms of what Missy was doing, I knew could do better. In fact, I did do better.

So just maybe, I can do better. And with that in mind, maybe again... I will do better.

Once upon a time there were four girls, captured in a photograph on a beautiful June day, several years ago. They have gigantic smiles on their faces, those girls, and are all wearing identical blue graduation gowns, and holding up crisp white diplomas.

The first of the girls is small, with big brown eyes and dark brown hair. A tiny body, crowned with a perfect broadcaster’s haircut. The joking pixie of the class, and she was going to be a famous anchorwoman. These days she is well on her way as a live reporter for a top TV news station.

The second girl is taller, with glasses and long blonde hair. More of a serious girl, but just as much a joker. She was going to amaze us all with her work in the magazine industry, but instead, found her calling in another direction. That girl went back to school, and is now an attorney.

The third girl is the same height as the second, her black Asian hair styled into a bob. She just wanted to write, and stay true to her roots. Sure enough, she is a staff member on a Singaporean magazine.

The last girl of the group is the tallest, her then very red hair an explosion of curls. She was a success story of the class, that girl, landing a prize internship and on her way to live in another country soon after graduation. She was going to be a photojournalist or foreign correspondent, a household name, traveling and writing about the important stories of the world. She was going to make a difference.

Now, she just types really fast.

Oli is getting a new car. The lease on her car is up next month, therefore, it’s time for another.

Oli’s first car was a black Beretta GTZ, fully loaded, rear spoiler, and windows tinted to maximum darkness. She loved that car, but their time together was cut short by one bad incident too many: it was prone to bad karma. First it started leaking green slime, then a rad cap blew off, then the brake pads fell out. This doesn’t include a certain road accident in small town America; the time her hood blew backwards and broke her windshield thanks to a dimwitted customs official, or when the teeny bopper across the street backed into the passenger side, full force.

Her second car was an Acura Integra, which was stolen right off our parents’ driveway. It was later found on blocks in Little Italy, stripped to the bone and a sad, forlorn mess, a far cry from its glorious racing days with my sister.

The same time this happened, our Dad was in the market for a Benz, and took Oli to the dealership with him. She kept walking back to this gorgeous silver C230 that she thought would cost a fortune, but thanks to our Dad’s seniority, ended up being very affordable. Baby’s first lease.

The German’s know their autos, and her three years passed without incident or complaint, So much so, that she continued on at Mercedes with a little number flip and a pewter C320.

(Pewter, silver… I don’t think there’s much difference between the two, but don’t tell Oli. She swears it’s something special)

The C320 came home to another three more happy years, but the lease is near over, and it’s time for a change. And so, Oli took me along to the Mercedes dealership just this last Saturday, where she test drove two cars.

First was the B200 turbo. Smooth ride, tons of trunk space, but it looked like a cross between Mork Ork’s space egg, and a Bavarian ambulance. I joked with Oli about the backseat having enough room for three baby car seats.

Second was the C280 Avant Garde Edition. Avant Garde is French for funky, cutting edge, dazzle your senses, and probably sounds a lot better than the German counterpart, “Uber Coolhausen!”

She liked the car. I liked the car. We left the dealership with prices to ponder.

Oli called me today, after the salesmen called her. Gotta love salesmen and how they hound you to the ends of the earth. But she didn’t call me with price options, she called to divulge what he’d said about me.

Apparently, dude asked if I’d be interested in a Mercedes. Again, gotta love salesmen. He’d seen my new Joey in the parking lot. Oli reminded him I had a Mini. “And then he said, ‘Your sister looks like a rebel. I can see her really booting around the city in that car.’”

Wow. Me, a rebel. Me, booting around the city in my car. All around, again, Wow.

What is the point of this story? For me to gloat over a nice compliment? For me to bask in my own rebel-ness?

The point of this story is that someone said something really cool about me about Oli. Do you know what they were telling her last year?

“Why does your sister look so sad all the time?”

“She has a nice face. She should smile more.”

“Is she okay?”

And etc.

Now, I’m a rebel hightailing in my car. At least according to a middle-aged Mercedes salesman.

Today was a good day.

The Men, the Boys, and One Dog

I was packing up my laptop in class a few days ago, when I overheard two students discussing their love of cats. Cats are soft. Cats are smart. Cats are just the cat’s meow.

That’s all fine and dandy, children. Love your animals. I resumed zipping up my bag, and then I heard one of them say, “Dogs are dumb. They’re just loyal.”

To which the other responded, “Exactly.”

Comments like this make me fume. Dogs are dumb, huh? How many seeing-eye cats do you know? How many cats are on the police force? Hey, did you ever hear the one about the airport drug-sniffing cat? Or the burglar that fled in terror from the tabby at the door?

It’s not that I hate cats. I don’t, though I did for years, after a particularly bad clawing incident when I was a kid. But, thanks to the love of a sweet kitten with Spina Bifida, I got over it. And just because I’ll never have a cat doesn’t mean I hate them, either. They make me sneeze.

But I love dogs. I truly love dogs. I always have, and I always will. I know some very smart dogs, too. I know a dog who goes down park slides by himself. I know a dog who knows over a dozen people by name. I know a dog who gives hugs and kisses when asked, and yet another dog who let his family know when someone was in trouble.

Craziest of all, I know this one dog who, as a tiny puppy, made a mountain of toys to climb so he could reach a coffee table laden with Chinese food.

Actually, that’s not a bunch of different dogs, but just one dog. Mine.

Growing up, I always wanted a dog. The parental units were against it, but I knew I’d get my pooch one day. Not when I lived in the dorms at my university; pets were forbidden. Not when I was in Journalism school either, I was just so busy. Certainly not during my internship in Europe; adjusting to life in a different country was enough to deal with at the time.

I’d been home from Europe for almost a year when it happened. I was in your standard pet store at the local mall buying some crickets for Oli’s lizard (that’s right, girlfriend’s got a lizard), when I saw a litter of four puppies in one of the windowed kennels near the door.

Pet stores are smart. Puppies are near the entrance for a reason. They were all adorable, as puppies usually are, and all doing very different things. Two were fighting tooth and nail. One was in the back eating poop. And the fourth, he was sitting all by himself right up against the glass, quietly watching the people walk by.

He was everything a puppy should be. Small, not much bigger than a guinea pig; big brown eyes, floppy ears and a stumpy tail. His fur was brown and black, and he had four white socks. He was half Schnauzer half Poodle, the store employee said, otherwise known as a Schnoodle, and all the rage in the new world of puppy hybrids.

I didn’t care about that. I was too busy staring at this little dog, and noticing him stare right back at me. For years, I’d heard canine owners say things like, “We didn’t choose our dog, our dog chose us.” Despite my love for animals I thought their claims sentimental, biased for love of their pets.

But then something happened at the pet store right that moment. I put one finger on the glass in front of the puppy; at the same time he put one paw up on the glass, too.

I felt a tug at my heart. And then, I bought him. Could you blame me?

It has been almost exactly four years since that day, and what years they have been. Bluetooth, known to everyone who loves him as Blue, has added a spice to our lives we never knew was missing. He was a quirky puppy, that one, housebreaking himself in three days, and finding his voice to bark at pigeons from standing on top of my desk to look out the window.

He was tiny too, weighing in at 3.6lbs the day he came home. I remember having to shuffle my feet around the apartment for the first few weeks instead of taking real steps, because I was scared to squash him.

It wasn’t hard to get attached to this dog, not when he lavished me with kisses every morning, ran sideways, or when his butt slid out from under him on the slippery parquet floor whenever we practiced “sit”. It wasn’t hard at all to become partial to a dog curling up on my pillow while I’d be sleeping on the couch, and rest his head on my neck. It was downright easy to adore a dog that licked my forehead when I cried, or growled at people who were rude to me. It was a given that I would be devoted to a dog who waited by the door every day for me to come home, or who never, ever left my side. Even as I type this, he’s sleeping next to me.

We all know we love our dogs, but often it takes something awful to let us know how much. Shortly before his first birthday, Blue ran across an icy street in front of a sliding minivan, and was hit.

Very luckily only one of his front legs was cut & bloodied up, but I’ll always remember that day as one of the most terrible of my life. Waiting in the emergency room at the vet’s, hearing him yelping when the stitches were being put in place, then taking him home, all bruised and doped up, where he just lay on the couch and slept for hours.

I was a wreck, crying, moping, going through packs of cigarettes just to numb myself, when I barely ever smoked to begin with. All I could think was, what if this had been serious? What if the wheel had gone over his leg? What if he was killed?

And then I thought, how did I give my heart away so easily? When did I fall head over heels in love with this animal?

Therein lies the curse of all our cats and dogs alike: unless you’re in your 90’s when they come home, if the natural order follows as it should, you’ll outlive your pet. It is my heartache and sadness, because whenever I picture myself an old lady, Blue is at my feet.

My dog has taught me many things, simple rules that I think would altogether make the world a better place:

1) A kiss good morning

2) A kiss goodnight

3) A hug a day makes the bad stuff go ‘way

4) Time spent together is the best time of all

5) Cherish your loved ones

Cat people have their opinions on dogs and that’s fine, but the love in a dog’s heart is magnificent to behold. Awhile back, I made a trip to the market down the street and took Blue with me. I tied his leash around a pole outside, went in to do some quick shopping, then back out to collect him and go home. When Blue saw me he did his customary bark and happy-wag, but he wasn’t alone. An elderly lady was standing next to him and with a big smile on her face said to me, “So you’re the one.”

I replied with a, “Sorry?” while she bent over a bit and pat Blue on the head.

“You’re the one, the love of his life. I’ve been standing here and watching your dog for the last few minutes. Every person that’s come out of those doors, he was hoping would have your face.”

When Blue and I got home I cried, stifled him with hugs, and decorated his kibble with some steak.

Blue, no matter what I do or how many times I try to read this to you, you’ll never understand what I’ve just written. It’s not your language, though I suspect you’d consider some tug-of-war playtime a considerable substitute. But if I could somehow make you understand, I would thank you for the incredible difference you’ve made in my life. No matter what, you’ve loved me simply for who I am. Not for what I do or how I look, but just for me. And in doing that, you have shown me what love is.

Any of us should be so lucky to love, or be loved, that much. Of course if my significant other liked carrying chew toys in his mouth I would completely freak out, but the basis is there.

You are my blessing, my sunshine, and my heart. The inevitable day will come when we must be parted, but I will treasure you always, I will miss you forever, and I will never forget what you've taught me.



(Note: Never ask how much Kleenex I went through while writing this)

This moment was brought to you by my very good friend, reckless inspiration.

One of the stories I tell most often is of the time I was trying to cross the Czech/German border at midnight.

I was living in Prague and going to see my cousin in Frankfurt, Germany. The bus ride was an eight hour night trip with a security check at the border. When that time came, Mr. Bus Driver collected all our passports in a little box then handed them to the armed guards waiting outside. Five, six, seven minutes went by, and then the armed guards came back to collect one passenger and lead her away. Me.

Moms had come to Prague with me for the first couple of weeks to help me get settled in. We needed visas to get into the Czech Republic, nice big green bumper stickers glued into our passports, and along with those came a stack of Border Crossing forms. In short, you couldn’t use one without the other.

When moms went home, she took her visa and forms with her. She also took my forms with her, a fact I was painfully made aware of about three hours before boarding the bus. I called Oli in a panic, and she ran to the embassy at home to get me some new ones, but ruefully told me I’d have to wing it getting into Germany.

Ha. If she’d only seen me then, being led into a government building in the middle of nowhere by two very stern, very armed men, at the pumpkin hour no less. Now, try explaining in crappy, broken Czech to these trigger happy blockheads, fondling their AK-47’s, that your mommy misplaced your very important papers, and you’re illegally trying to get into another country.

It’s not easy. I remember saying prosim (please) and vizum (visa) a lot, until they eventually decided I was harmless enough to be let through. The incident had shaken me up so much that, once back on the bus, I immediately peeled open and ate a Babybel cheese.

It had also pissed me off enough to stick the red wax makeshift clown nose on and wave, “nya!” to the armed guard watching the bus pull away.

It’s a great story to tell, but at the time it was a nightmare. It came to mind today when I checked out my Starbucks cup:

The Way I See It #149

An adventure is never an adventure when it’s happening.
-- Tim Cahill, Outdoor Travel Writer

A lot of things in life aren’t adventures at the time. New relationships, new jobs, buying that first home, or becoming a parent. Starting high school, driving, blind dates, or jumping in a swimming pool for the very first time. Remember that? We were all scared, but that adult waiting in the pool reassured us that everything would be fine.

Boy, that first jump was hard. I remember holding my nose, closing my eyes and the nerves in my stomach tightening as my feet left the safe haven of poolside. I landed right in my dad’s arms, and the joy washed over me. Then, I climbed back out and did it again. I kept jumping into that pool all day long, because it was so much fun.

It’s easy for us to forget that life’s little adventures happen every day, often disguised as messes. So maybe this muddle of mine, these issues of body + career + love + décor + blogging about it all aren’t such bad things after all, but more like the motions I have to go through before becoming a better person for it.

Besides, as hard as losing a few pounds can be, it’s at least easier than having a couple of AK-47’s pointed at you.

But definitely not as fun as wearing the Babybel clown nose.

Happy Valentine’s Day! One day late.

From the jist of my previous post on the matter, you all know I’m not insane on Valentine’s Day. At least I wasn’t up until now, and to be honest I still so have issues with it. Flower prices go up, the country mice flock to the city and steal the great parking spots, and being in this part of the world, the weather usually sucks.

But like I said, this was my first Valentine’s Day with Sandy, or at least the first as his girlfriend (still giggling, finding it insane, etc. etc.), and I wanted to make it memorable. So, after much thought on the matter, I’d decided on something more off-the-hook. All I would need was Joey, some gas in the tank, a blindfold for Sandy, and my own corny imagination. I couldn’t wait to surprise him.

On the other hand, Sandy had manufactured his own brand of special: reservations at a top notch steak house. We love steak, and I’d never been to this place, an establishment that I’d heard him raving over for months. He was excited about that too, and had decided to surprise me.

Alas, the surprise never came. Not for me, not for him. The night before Valentine’s Day, there was a major storm that blanketed the city in three feet of snow. While the roads were clear enough to make the drive to his place 50 minutes instead of the usual 25, there was more catastrophe: Sandy had the flu.

He felt really bad, but I thought his sniffly self sounded really cute on the phone. The reservations were canceled and I didn’t mine one bit. He can surprise me with steak some other time, and I can save the blindfolding & kidnapping for a future date.

(Dirty! But in reality it’s totally innocent, promise. I’ll keep you updated)

So, Sandy and I spent our first couply Valentine’s Day making soup. Soup is bowl food, soul food, feel better all around food. Great for colds & flu, and just what he needed. He whipped up a pot of vegetable turkey beef, served with thin noodles and wild rice; I made coconut red lentil soup with snow peas, mushrooms and baby corn. The red curry paste in the base gave it some extra kick.

He poured us some wine and we lounged on the couch with our bowls, watching Sopranos reruns before going to bed. We fell asleep holding hands.

And, that was it. When you look at it through an outside window, it wasn’t all that spectacular. But then, when you love someone and they love you back, every day is Valentine’s Day, no?

Just maybe there were some other surprises, too. When I got to his house and walked into the kitchen. There was a table full of goodies just for me: Hershey’s Kisses, truffles, a Snoopy card, and a dozen long-stem, russet coloured roses. He’d even rewrapped the roses himself, because he wasn’t satisfied with the florist’s patchwork.

As for my surprise to Sandy, it might have had something to do with the lacy red stuff underneath my jeans and black Ramones blouse.

But the biggest surprise of all wasn’t expected, or store bought. It came when I was slicing some snow peas and talking about Going the Mile.

That’s our code phrase for marriage. We don’t say, “You know, if you and I get married someday,” we say, “You know, if we go the mile…” and etc.

I don’t remember the point I was making, but I started it out with, “You know Ace, if we go the mile…”

To which he interrupted, over from where he was stirring his soup, “Cheech, when are you going to stop with the If we go the mile, and start saying When?”

It’s safe to say I almost sliced my thumb clean off.

It’s safer to say I gave him a huge hug and kiss, flu or no flu.

And it’s the safest thing of all to say that my heart, full of gladness, is bursting. One day, some day, this man wants to marry me.

Fancy that.

Inventory, Part 2

What is measured on the outside, doesn’t necessarily give measure to the inside. In other words, you can’t judge a book by its cover. Who am I to shitpick my outside, without dissecting the inside?

For starters, I must be harsh.

My eating habits are not great. They’re not bad, but they’re not great. I haven’t exactly been sticking to my super healthy way of life plan. I’m not eating overly large meals or snacking to excess, then again, I’ve also been eating after 7pm.

Let’s dig deeper into the Yucky hole. I haven’t been to the gym in months. Remember Tosca Reno’s fabulous Butt Book workout? Six feet under. My daily cup of green tea has dwindled down to a couple of times a week, and my coffee fast was fast. As I type this, there’s a cup of java on my desk. With cream. And sugar.

I should be shot.

But before I squirt myself to death with Jinny’s Buzz Lightyear water gun, I have to remember the important part of Inventory: being constructive. Always be constructive.

I’ve been dressing better, and that’s no lie. Every fat girl revolves around the very few precious items in her wardrobe that she feels make her look good, or at the very least, hide the bad parts. As every fat girl also knows, the majority of her wardrobe is “someday” clothes, while the clothes on her back get more worn and tired with each passing day.

I have lots of “me when smaller” clothes, and they’re fabulous. But I think I wised up and concentrated more on “me right now” clothes. I wear jeans a lot now, which I haven’t done in years. Blouses and tank tops layered with sweaters, and Puma sneakers. They’re so comfortable, those shoes.

I have started to do more with my hair. I wear it down all the time now. I even wore it up today, but styled differently, with some curls bouncing around here and there. And, ta da, I’ve had it straightened on the odd occasion.

I still stick with my holy cosmetrinity of lids, lashes and lips, but I dress them up a little more on occasion. Sandra’s lesson was not in vain: I wear colours just that much more often now.

I wasn’t going to talk about how fantastic I am, because I don’t do that. I don't think I'm all that fantastic. But then one of my dearest, devoted friends left a comment just the other day that got me *right here*:

I was planning a comment on the fact that you are doing your inventory just on your exterior (which by all means is absolutely gorgeous as it is), and that you are completely not mentioning your inner beauty, your inner persona, YOU! In fact, have you ever talked about it in the past 15 months of Blogging? I'm not sure that you have.

You are a truly beautiful person (Inside & Out) and you have a great group of friends and a fantastic family. You are always smiling and you always make the entire salon laugh when you come in. You are positive, excited and fucking talented. Yet you never write about that.

Yeah... I was going to comment about that, but then I read your last line and I'm hoping that your next post is going to be an "internal inventory"... and don't worry... my comments are not copyrighted so you can just cut and paste.

-- Lance

Wonderful friends are wonderful to have, because they see in us the things we often can’t.

Thanks, pookie.

So all in all, I’m not so bad. But if I want my outsides to start matching my insides, there’s plenty left to do.

First things first: more tea, less coffee. And start exercising again, stupid.

February 13 is an important day in history.

Good things happened on this day, there were many birthdays. Composers with long mouthfuls for names share this day, like Domingo Miguel Bernaube Terradellas in 1713, and Valentin de Zubiaurre y Unionbarrenechea in 1837. The first American quintuplets were born on February 13, 1875, as was Omar Torrijos Herrera in 1929, future president of Panama.

People died on this day. In 1542 Catherine Howard, fifth wife of Henry VIII, lost her head. Marvel Comics cartoonist Jack Kirby passed away in 1994.

Momentous events have taken place. The first sign of cholera in London was today in 1832. There were riots in New York over the high price of flour in 1837, and Jesse James held up his first bank in 1866. King Tut’s tomb was opened in 1924, mysteriously cursing all those who entered, and the first Barbie doll went on sale in 1959.

I have my own momentous event to celebrate, an anniversary, if you will. February 13, 2006, sometime between 7&9pm: after a barrage of insults from my boyfriend Jess, I tell him to go to hell. Our 6+ year relationship is ended on the spot.

I once got this email forward full of destiny-driven sayings, one of them along the lines of, “remember that right now is exactly where you are supposed to be.”

There are times when that’s a load of hooey. February 13, 2006, I honestly thought to be the worst day of my life.

That was then. Now, I know it was the best day of my life. The wheel of change started to turn.

If there are such things as time machines, if Bill and Ted had something going with those excellent adventures, I’d go back to that night and tell that shattered girl, take heart. Everything’s going to be okay. Everything’s going to be better than okay.

Truly, it is. Now, if I could just fit into smaller jeans…

Like a lot of cell phone owners, I refuse to answer calls that come up as Number Withheld. My contacts list is bursting with everyone important, and those important people know me and my quirky ways. If they want to get a hold of me, their names and numbers shine forth.

Usually, Number Withheld means telemarketers, or people I don’t want to speak to. And lately, I’ve been getting a record Number Withhelds, meaning a record number of hang-ups. Last week, I got four in one afternoon.

This might be premature to say, but I’ve got a got feeling.

Jess.

Stop.

Starbucks cup
The Way I See It #152

Perhaps people who think, “the sky is the limit” haven’t heard of Yuri Gagarin. We live in a limitless world, but if we aim low we’ll surely miss the target.

I looked up Yuri Gagarin. He was a Soviet cosmonaut, the first man in space, and the first person to ever orbit the earth. In his photo on Wikipedia he's smiling, in full military dress, and bedecked with medals and other honours. It's not hard to see why.

It's easy to understand what the author of that coffee cup quote is trying to say: aim for the stars; nothing else will do.

It just seems that sometimes, getting into space is easier than fighting the good fight to improve one's self.

Of course, in such cases, it never hurts to find other bits that will boost you all the more, like that memorable moniker from The Girl Next Door: "The juice was worth the squeeze."

Some fresh OJ sounds really good right now, too. And I mean that in the most metaphorical possible sense.

Inventory, Part 1

A few days ago I was walking through a Home Depot with Sandy, when my cell phone started to buzz. Raj. I let Sandy take the call, and after the obligatory hellos and how are yous, I heard him say into the phone, “I’m great. I’m walking through the store with the sexiest girl in the world.”

Thanks, gorgeous. But, I don’t feel like that just yet. It’s inventory time.

I was planning, with all good intention, to take care of the inventory deal on the first day of every month from here on in. The first of the month is known as pay the piper day: rent, mortgage, insurance, bills, yadda yadda, so why not make it a, “pay the everything” day?

Thus, from now on, when I pay my mortgage and Mastercard is the day I also pay my vanity and health dues. Right. Moving along, then.

After I made that decision I realized that we’re already a week into February, and guilt got the better of me. I really shouldn’t be waiting for tomorrow, so I took a few spare moments, locked myself in the bathroom, and stripped down.

A girl’s reflection can be her worst nightmare. We live in modern times, after all, and there are no mirror genies glorifying our very existence, reassuring us that we are indeed the fairest of them all.

Sucky. Then again, no mirror genies also mean we’re not evil queens hell bent on killing our teenage stepdaughters with poisoned apples.

I find myself avoiding mirrors all the time. When I look bad, when I think I look bad, when I look good but think other parts of me look bad, etc. Worst of all are those circular mirrors in convenience stores, up in ceiling corners to easily spot theft. No one ever looks good in those.

Anyhow, I digress. Time for the gritty, but not before the rules:

1) Look at your reflection. Really look.
2) Be constructive.

Bad everything doesn’t exist. Be aware of that.

Alright, I’m buck naked in front of my mirror, again, and staring at myself, again. Overall I’m finding that I have two conclusions, and they are the same as last time: I’ve improved. That's the goods news. I've improved Qquite wonderfully in fact, and that makes me glad. Not so good news is, there’s room for a lot more.

Last time I started from bottom to top. Why give up a good thing?

At the very bottom are my feet. Oh, my feet. Poor, awkward feet. Looking at you makes me sad, and then ask the high heavens above, Why, oh why, was I born with duck feet? I know they’re so big because I’m vertically gifted, and I’m totally fine being the same height as Christy Turlington. But why are they so awkward that I can’t ever wear the same stylish shoes as Christy Turlington? Sigh.

My feet are looking a little sad these days. It’s been months since they’ve been pedicured or even looked after properly – seasonal slacking; thank you very much – and while I know I’ve got some of the tools for the job, I’m not exactly a professional.

It’s easier to work on a foundation then to build something from scratch, and the very least my piggies deserve is some happiness, so I booked a pedicure. I actually booked a pedicure while naked. Eww. Well, at least they at the spa will never know.

Traveling north, my ankles, which are now a lovely matching set. They’ve been sprain-free for 16 months and counting, sweet relief, so my bone structure down there is back to normal. They still swell when it rains, though. My knees and ankles have become seniors before the rest of me.

My calves, strong as always. Thanks, Dad. Again, they’ll be fantastic when I reach the ideal me, minimal exercise required.

There go my knees with their scars and cracking tendencies (oh, the sprains), and we get to my thighs. Sighs, thighs. Definitely what you’d call a problem area. Smaller than last year, thank goodness, but not significantly so. At least not significantly to the standards I’d like. So, old pointers remain: target exercises, cleaner foods, loofah and maybe a firming cream.

Do firming creams actually work? I’m not too sure, but if they do, boy, would they be great for my butt. Still the bane of my existence, but happily, just that bit less baneful. Good work, girlfriend. Keep working. Again, target exercises, cleaner foods, loofah and firming creams that might or might not work.

My stomach. Last year it was a spare tire; now it’s just a l’il training wheel. While that makes me very happy, a nice, flat stomach with a line down the happy trail will make me happier. Situps.

My chest. Greta and Chloe, my darling girls, you’re uber fabulous. And that’s not even my opinion (giggle). Sadly though, my bras are looser. Swimmier. The transformation has begun; only one thing to do now. Note to Self: visit Victoria’s Secret. Lacey told me about the Very Sexy bra; maybe that’ll very sexy my girls right back up again, and keep them sexy throughout.

My arms need work, that much is obvious. They’re not bad, just not at their prime. My neck is my neck, and she goes right to my face.

I don’t look as tired as I used to, but when I do, it’s usually from all the running around I’ve been doing lately. That’s a good tired; not stress or depressed tired, like it was before. I’m happy with that.

My features are still the same, thankfully so, and even though I’ll never be crazy about my nose, I think it’ll look nicer on a leaner face, crookedness and all. I also need an eyebrow wax.

My skin isn’t bad. Matches the rest of me, at present: better, but not best. Hone up those eating skills, make a trip to the face mask store, and for shit sakes, woman, moisturize! You’re not 20 anymore.

I’m not 20 anymore. All the more reason to keep going, no?

Finally, my hair. Still my dark crowning glory of long curls, currently with deep red highlights. And there’s one big, big difference from last year: the clip is gone. I wear it loose all the time now.

I started doing this to free myself, and even though I’m not all there yet, I have experienced a freedom of sorts. I’ve let my hair down, and put my chin up. I want to look at the world now.

That in itself is one form of freedom, I think.

I cherish that victory, but it’s not enough to open a bottle of Veuve. Thus, the solution is the same as before: take this knowledge, learn from it, and get to work.

While I’m relieved to get my clothes back on and start to count inventory as being over for the month, I don’t think I should consider myself finished just yet.

I’ve decided to dig a little deeper this time.

Here it is. Naked day. It's here. One of my most unfavourite things in the whole world to do is here. Shitpick, critique, lambast. This is it.

.............

.............

.............

.............

Maybe I'll do it tomorrow.

It’s that time again. Inventory.

Ugh.

I dread it. Wouldn’t you? Standing butt naked in front of a full length mirror, shitpicking yourself up and down, for better or for worse? It’s enough to send a girl straight to Godiva for the triple XL truffle box, then to the couch for a gorge session to Babycakes.

No, it’s definitely not the most enjoyable thing in the world to do. How sucky is it then, that inventory still remains, and will always be ever-so-necessary for goal making, goal meeting, and overall best-itude in general?

But then that’s just my opinion.

As many of you recall, I did inventory almost one year ago. A sobering experience, it was. What I’ve come to realize is that inventory can’t just happen once; I think it’s more of a monthly thing. How else will I keep track?

Inventory also dictates that once I’ve completed said shitpicking, eating better will be in order. Organic, greens, vitamins and an overall caloric drop.

If I’m going to be eating that well, I have therefore also decided to go out in style. No better way to do that then with a trip to Raj and James’ place.

Chef James isn’t just a chef, he’s a bon vivant, a master, an aficionado with food. We’re talking about a guy who goes about town on his days off, notebook in hand, collecting inspirations and recipe ideas from the atmosphere around him.

When you get an invitation to this house for dinner, you don’t turn it down. You accept, bring wine, and show up hungry, tastes buds sharpened and ready to go.

I wasn’t disappointed. Starters alone were caramelized dates stuffed with chorizo sausage, miniature mozzarella smoked turkey quesadillas with spicy salsa dipping sauce, and Shiraz.

The main course was rabbit. I have qualms about eating Bugs or the Easter Bunny, but then being professionally trained, James knows exactly what to do with everything, and how to make it spectacular. And, spectacular tasting. He served leg of rabbit, bone sticking up and paired with three grilled parsnips, also sticking up, stuck into creamed barley risotto with grape tomatoes and wild mushrooms, topped with a green herbed mousse. All served on hot round plates atop square chargers, ice water and Chardonnay.

As if that wasn’t enough, dessert was panna cotta decorated with a frangelico-dipped ladyfinger, homemade chocolate ice cream, caramelized bananas and a dark chocolate square.

That’s what I call going out in style.

100% Real Juice: Mary the Jewellery Fairy

Awhile ago, I was at your local overpriced department store in search of fortune. Quite literally, too. I was looking for a fortune cookie keychain.

I'd seen it in a brochure for the store, and knew I had to have it. It was small, it was shiny, and perfect for my house keys. Best of all, it was a fortune cookie that actually opened. Something small and stupid that had my name written all over it.

Said local overpriced department store is a large, crowded place at the best of times, digs that Posh & Becks would frequent if they ever came to town. And so it was crowded that morning when I walked through its impressive, gilted doors, picture in hand and idea in mind.

This isn't typically the place one goes to for keychains. It's the place one goes to for $5,000 blouses, and exfoliant at $200 an ounce. Thus, asking for that $20 fortune cookie keychain not only garners a) contempt from most employees working on commission, but also leads to b) a total disdain for your very existence, and a complete lack of help.

After a half hour of asking here and there, I was shuffled off to the jewellery counter. I was fully prepared to give up right then and there, leaving the store without my fortune, when a fabulous, bespectacled, "my hair is auburn, not red" saleswoman greeted me with a huge smile. She was bedecked in vintage clothing, and glittered with baubles and personality from head to toe. Eyes sparkling, she looked right at me and said, "Mary the Jewellery Fairy at your service."

My stint in the retail world was short, and I do not miss it. You wouldn't either if you were paid minimum wage to act like a zombie. Standard intros were, "Can I help you?" or, "What can I do for you today?" This jewellery fairy stuff was completely left field, and from that first second, Mary had my attention.

I showed her the keychain picture but it was nowhere in jewellery, or anywhere in accessories at all, for that matter. I'd been in the store long enough at this point, or so I thought, and bid Mary adieu. No fortune for me today.

I turned and made my way out, but Mary caught me by the hand and said, "Just a few more minutes. Let me see what I can do."

This is when Mary started to make calls to this department, that department, the stockroom on the second floor. I tried to say that she needn't go to all that fuss for something so small and insignificant, but she wouldn't hear it. Twenty minutes later, a stock boy in jeans and a t-shirt gave Mary a small white box, which she in turn handed over to me.

In the box was my fortune cookie. I thanked Mary profusely, especially for going to all that trouble. Really, this wasn't exfoliant at $200 an ounce. Not even close. But then Mary looked me dead in the eye and said something I'll never forget: "Never take 'No' for an answer. A woman never should."

When I got home I took my keychain out, and opened it up. Inside were two tiny dice, with inscriptions on every side like, "Wash the car," or Polish my shoes."

Love dice, or in this case, servitude dice. Not my style. Since I had no intention of making my beloved roll dice to serve me, I threw them away.

I still kept the fortune cookie though, but something else is inside it now. After tossing the dice, I got a small piece of paper and wrote down on it, Never take No for an answer. A woman never should.

It's folded up and inside the cookie, dangling from my house keys. I carry it with me every day.

Fairy godmothers are scarce in this day and age, but when you meet one, take her advice. Thanks, Mary.

I’m wildly ticklish, and Sandy takes full advantage of it. It’s not as bad as when I was a kid, I’d practically be in hysterics if someone looked at me wrong. But it’s still pretty nuts, especially since lover boy knows every which button to push.

There we are, lying in his bed, peacefully watching TV. Out of the blue Sandy rams two fingers up my armpit, and it’s all downhill from there. I shriek and try to fend him off, but it usually ends with him wrestling me down and blowing raspberries into my navel. That alone doubles me up so badly, I’m practically in tears by the time he’s done.

Yesterday was a longer session than usual, and even though I’d managed to wriggle out of his grasp, I was so drained from laughter that he easily caught me time and again. After a little while when we were mostly still again I asked him, totally out of breath, “Whytheheckdoyouticklemesomuch?”

Mischievous grin, sarcastic cackle. “I love to hear you laugh. I like to think it means you’re happy. “

So much. I still can’t believe you’re here. Let’s always be like this. Don’t change.

“I’m very happy. Please stop tickling me now?”

He complied. For 10 seconds. Then out of the blue, shouted, “Never!” and wrestled me down again.

I ended up falling off the bed. Shits and giggles.

Back to the drawing board means going back to basics. Going back to basics means, once again, going back to where it all fell apart.

If my body was that important to me, if this better health and well-being thing was at the top of my list, why did I let it happen? How could I have let it go?

I’d accomplished at least part of my goal for Oli’s wedding. I didn’t get down to where I wanted to go, but I was decently satisfied with the September 23rd result.

After that, things just got busy. I had work, I had school, I had dashing to and fro with minutes to spare, grabbing whatever I could in the meantime, just for the sake of having a meal.

And then, I had Sandy. Breakfasts in bed, downtown lunches, afternoon café stops and romantic dinners with Sandy. The fact that we’re both food snobs doesn’t help; neither do his exceptional kitchen skills.

With Sandy, a meal isn’t a meal so much as an experience. We have excellent times, he and I, excellent times laced with gorgonzola cheese with cherry preserves on walnut crackers; parmesan drizzled with aceto balsamico; baby greens with radicchio and honey vinaigrette; homemade prosciutto drowned with glasses of amarone, and some candied ginger for extra snap.

Giggling, we feed one another, then share a shot of chocolate grappa before moving on to the next experience: each other.

It’s quite the drug. When two people are as much a part of the moment as the food, it’s a hard thing to give up.

Fall flew into winter, which flew into the holiday season, which was office party after brunch with friends after dinners upon dinners upon dinners with family. January, back to work, back to rushing, back to here.

So, here we are. Here I am. It’s funny in one way, that after I’ve listed every excuse in the book, I find that I really had none to begin with.
But it is what it is and, that said, the one thing I can proud of is that while I did loosen my grip, I didn’t let go. I haven’t gained any extra weight.

Then again, when I look back on the past few months, it was exactly the amount of time that I needed to get this finished once and for all.

Sigh. Dieting sucks. So does Inventory, which I’m going to have to do again. Is there any better way to remind a girl of her shortcomings, than standing buck naked in front of the mirror?

Answer:

Like Maya, I debated over it for a minute. Not that he wanted me to change, but that he was totally, 100% happy with the way that I am.

No matter how I look or ever feel about myself, I'll never forget that he said what he did. Acceptance is a beautiful thing, especially when you know how bad rejection feels. Trust me on that.

But in the end, this is my conclusion: If I'm not happy, I can't really make others happy. If there's anything this man deserves, it's all of me.

If there's anything that I deserve, it's all of me.

Back to the drawing board.

Question:

Is it possible to be totally happy with yourself, if your significant other is totally happy with you?

During a couch potato phase a few years ago, which clashed with my limited cable only getting nine channels, I got addicted to reruns of Just Shoot Me. I couldn’t recall every character’s name if you paid me, never mind the running plots of the show, but one episode stuck.

Maya, played by Laura San Giacomo, is one of the main characters. She’s a very good looking and well-built woman (translation: hot body), and in this particular episode, she’s dating a smart, attractive man. They talk, they have fun and great times in general, but there’s one problem: he’s always shoving food at her.

After gaining a few pounds in record time, Maya gets the nagging suspicion that this new boyfriend is trying to fatten her up. Of course she dismisses this idea as ridiculous, until they run into one of his ex-girlfriends at a restaurant. Go figure, Ms. Ex is obese.

Maya corners her man and gets him to admit that yes, he’s got a thing for really large women. He likes Maya a heck of a lot, thing is, he’s attracted way more to her mind than her body. What he wants her to do is start racking on the pounds.

Maya is disgusted by this, until he says something on the lines of, “Think about it. You’re 100, 150 pounds away from being super hot. You could eat anything you want, never go to the gym again, and I’ll adore you.”

For a moment, this makes her stop and think. But in the end her answer is no, and fetish boy is cut loose.

This is a bit of an oxymoron in that dude is trying to change Maya, but the question still applies since the change isn’t one you anticipate. How often do our significant others want us to gain weight instead of lose it?

If you were overweight and unhappy with yourself (as Maya would undoubtedly have been), yet your better half was just crazy about you, would you still lose the weight? If you did have a hot body but were always under pressure to keep it, then along comes Mr. Most Understanding Man on Earth and he just happens to love his women rounded out, would you throw caution to the wind? Would you be happier, fatter, because he is?

After all, a huge part of the reason women do the things they do, is to attract fairer members of the opposite sex. Coco Chanel reinvented the hemline, but it’s mostly men that lust after the shapely legs defining it. To have the attention of your beloved, emotionally and physically, is a big thing.

Then again, we still have ourselves to look at in the mirror. Is his happiness enough? Will it convince you that you were all right all along, or would there still be that pull to do better? Would you still do it for yourself?

After my second to last gown fitting this past August, I was so happy with my slimmer waistline and all the progress I’d made, that I rewarded myself.

Nothing makes a girl feel sexier than lingerie. Not just any lingerie either, but Princesse Tam Tam. It’s not terribly healthy for the budget, but a small price to pay to look and feel so… provocatively alluring, to say the least.

It wasn’t a planned purchase, but moms needed some special underthings for her own wedding outfit, and we made a stop at a boutique lingerie store that day. The second I saw the matching bra and undies set on the mannequin over the cash, I knew it was coming home. No matter what the tag said.

I liked it so much because it wasn’t like the standard, assembly line sexuality showcased in shopping mall lingerie store windows. This set was different: Daisy Duke meets Memoirs of a Geisha over Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I imagine they’d be having Brie and honeyed fig sandwiches with martinis for that breakfast.

Fiery yet sweet. I knew it was for me, and so I bought it on the spot. I also bought it a few sizes smaller, because that’s what girls like me do. Big(ger) girls wanting to become small(er) girls buy littler things, because we want something to look forward to. After all, we have that grand vision of, “one day.”

Here’s my grand vision in a nutshell, edited for your own good: Me, Sandy, Princesse Tam Tam. Throw in some pearls, and I watch his socks fly off. Romantic escapades ensue.

In my ideal world, the past four months have been time and enough to finish what I started, and I am now my dream size. In this ideal world I am the sexy bombshell who’s worn Princesse Tam Tam lingerie for her boyfriend, and made his socks fly off.

In the real world, I am at a standstill.

People do stupid things to find themselves. I am no exception. In fact, I’d say that my canonization as Saint Whosit Whatsit, patron of all things confusing, is just around the corner.

In a perverse, vain hope to find myself and my path in life, I have recently embarked on several ventures: Back to school, art dealer, entrepreneur of first class doggie products to city savvy pooch lovers. I took these ventures so seriously that this past June saw me at Woofstock, canine festival extraordinaire, peddling over 2300 dog biscuits, made from scratch, by yours truly.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. I was swept up in the glamour of being my own boss, even for something that would start out so small. After all, my friend LouLou was backing me up with her awesome products and together, we couldn’t go wrong. It was an awesome partnership begat through awesome ideas. We would take over the world.

That fateful Saturday morning, I started out full of pluck. I was going to sell sell sell, and become a doggie biscuit making marvel.

By Sunday night I was left with my own frustration, and thousands of biscuits to spare. I couldn’t understand where I had gone wrong. Which dog wouldn’t love these biscuits? Which owner wouldn’t want to provide their beloved with the best, tastiest treats in the funkiest of flavours? Sweet potato maple? Honey banana oat? Strawberry pecan? Strawberry?

Nursing a bruised ego and wanting to get rid of my humiliation (and imminent failure), I did what people in denial do best: sweep the evidence under the rug. Whatever biscuits didn’t go into the freezer were rained upon my very happy Bluetooth, and whenever I got the opportunity, gave bags upon bags of them away to friends with dogs, and friends who had friends with dogs.

One of these friends was Lee. Lee was the seamstress of my maid of honour gown for Oli’s wedding, and she also has a gorgeous Hungarian Vizsla dog named Abigail. Every time I had a fitting I’d go armed with heels, strapless bra/corset/deranged cutlets, and a sack full of treats for Abigail. In turn, Abigail would lick my face, devour my biscuits, then steal my shoes.

Our visits tapered off after the wedding, and then soon after, Lee landed a job in China. I’m not sure if Abigail will fall in love with Shanghai, but I’m betting she becomes a huge fan of Kung Pao chicken.

So that was that with Lee, Abigail and my biscuits, or so I thought. I got this message a few days ago:

Hi,

You don’t know me, but I’m a friend of Lee’s. She passed your email address on to me, because I wanted to thank you.

My Dalmatian, Kingston, recently passed away. He was old and very sick, and his death was very hard on all of us. The last couple of months were the most difficult, especially when the sickness really took root, and he refused to eat.

I tried everything, all his favourite foods and treats, but nothing worked. He lost so much weight. Then Lee brought over those biscuits you made, and to our amazement, he loved them. Up until he died, those cookies were all Kingston would eat.

So, thank you. Really.

Wow.

From the looks of it, I will never bake dog biscuits for a living. I won’t pretend I’m too broken up about that either, actually I’m pretty relieved. In fact, if I ever do get into the dog business, I’ll just provide someone else with the recipes. Let them slave over the hot stove and dent their fingers with the cookie cutters.

But I made someone feel better. And I made their dog feel better. Even if it was just for a few minutes, some fire hydrant-shaped strawberry biscuits were a touch of relief.

Dog biscuits aren’t my path in life, that’s for sure. I’m no closer to finding myself today, than I was last June. But it’s good to know that just maybe, I went through that for a reason.

Rest in peace, Kingston.

In a few weeks, it will be Valentine’s Day. I’ve known this for a long time now, as have we all. The stores have been reminding us since that infamous date, January 2nd, when its down with the Christmas trees and reindeer, and up with the hearts and Cupids.

It’s still a ways off, but the weeks are flying. And yes, it’s all commercial crap when you think about it, and not my style at all. I don’t want to buy the store out, write sappy poetry or throw rose petals on the bed, nor do I expect any of that in return.

But I do want to do something just a little bit… dare I say it? Special.

Sandy and I are going strong. Five plus months, one international vacation, two lunches with the parents later, and here we are. We’re enjoying each other, there is nothing to be fixed, and the relationship buzzing in my head has come to a standstill.

I am not used to feeling like this. What I’m used to is tension and frustration, not surprise dinners, serenades, and slow dancing at 10am on a Sunday. It’s a very good thing, feeling floaty. Being calm.

So sue me if I want to do something a bit wacky and off the wall on that great, commercially driven, propaganda filled day of love.

There’s another reason, too. It’s a bit more selfish. My track record for good Valentine’s Days isn’t exactly stellar. In fact, it downright sucks. If you don't believe me then just judge for yourself.

February 14, 1975: In the womb. I don’t know what my own toes are, let alone Valentine’s Day. Sainted bliss.

February 14, 1976, I am almost 8-months old and full-fledged citizen of the world. Struggling to walk and throwing fistfuls of baby food at various family members; still blessedly ignorant about Valentine’s Day.

1977-79: Too young to give a shit.

1980: Kindergarten. Cut 23 hearts out of construction paper, and scrawl my name on them with red crayon. Distribute them to everyone else in the class because the teacher tells me to. Don’t know the full meaning of Valentine’s Day. Don’t know that red crayon on red construction paper totally clashes.

1981: Recognize Valentine’s Day as belonging to the she-child who gives out the coolest store bought cards ever. Pester moms to get the pricey Care Bears pack. Cry when she brings home the generic Cupids brand.

1982: Recognize Valentine’s Day as belonging to the she-child who gives out the coolest store bought cards ever. Pester moms to get the pricey Smurfs pack. Cry when she brings home the generic Cupids brand.

1983: Recognize Valentine’s Day as belonging to the she-child who gives out the coolest store bought cards ever. Pester moms to get the pricey Spider-Man and his Amazing Friends pack. Cry when she brings home the generic Cupids brand. At least they change them every year.

1984: Recognize Valentine’s Day as belonging to the she-child who distributes not only the coolest store bought cards ever, but the tastiest store bought chocolate cupcakes ever. Moms doesn’t believe in icing. Give out the generic Cupids and keep my mouth shut.

1985: Recognize Valentine’s Day as the popularity contest belonging to the prettiest she-child who gets the most cards and candy from admiring boys. Really, was there ever a chance? I read Blubber instead.

1986: Read The Cat ate my Gymsuit.

1987: Read Johnny Tremain.

1988: Read The First Woman Doctor. Elizabeth Blackwell, you fascinate me. Mooned over the poisonous peacock that was Gabriel.

1989: Read To Kill a Mockingbird. Mooned over Jules, my best friend.

1990: Read My Sweet Audrina. Mooned over Chris.

1991: Read Jane Eyre. Mooned over Chris. My unlikely, punk he-friend Willow, notorious for skipping class and smoking in fire escapes, picked a flower and put it in my hair.

1992-94: Read The Odyssey, The Scarlet Letter and The Fountainhead respectively. Mooned over Sandy.

1995: Hatched a twofold plan with my single roommates in university. First, the underhanded scheme of sending each other big, sappy, romantic cards signed with guy’s names. Fictitious guys. Sure we were all alone for Valentine’s Day, but no one else had to know that. We just let everyone else think we were sultry objects of desire, besotting the world’s available men.

Second: To celebrate our brilliance, we went to a pub and got drunk off our asses. I felt better that so many of my roommates were single. We all felt better being drunk off our asses.

1996: Mooned over my first post-secondary crush, Bruce. To ease the pain, I instead go club hopping with Raj and some girlfriends. Original plan wasn’t to hop, but the sight of every club full to the gills with clinging, kissing couples was a little more than we could stand. Ended up at a gay strip club, where straight, roses-selling bouncer at the door says that tonight, no women allowed.

I snap. Multitudes of crap Valentine’s Days come raining down on me, and I deliver a rather pathetic monologue, repeatedly using the words “men” and “assholes”. I spin around to leave, friends in tow, but barely walk ten steps when the bouncer spins me back around, smile on his face and two roses in hand. He hands me one, saying, “Not all men are assholes.” He hands me the second rose and says, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

1997: Still mooning over Bruce. I collect the one single friend I have left, and we spend Valentine’s Day cabbing throughout the city, going to as many restaurants, clubs and pubs as we can, with the sole purpose of downing one drink per establishment, and collecting matchbooks. By the end of the night we each had two generous handfuls.

1998: My bodyguard boyfriend of three months, Jack, is away protecting the world. I open up his Valentine’s Day email and read that the first thing he’s doing to do when he gets back is propose marriage. I spend the first minute letting the happiness course through my system. I spend the next 20 with my head in the toilet, retching.

1999: In the mailbox is a card from my good friend Martin. It has, I like you, you big silly! written across the top. Good friends are good to have. Too busy with grad school applications to do anything else.

2000: My first Valentine’s with Jess. We are long distance. He puts up a website with his picture in a heart, and a few sappy paragraphs devoted to his love for me. I gush. Two days later he takes it down. Perhaps that was a sign.

2001: My second Valentine’s with Jess, and we are still long distance. He sends me an e-card. My real gift is waiting for me when I visit a few weeks later: uber sexy lingerie. I get squeamish about putting it on for the first time, as no one has ever given me uber sexy lingerie before. Jess gives me grief. Perhaps that was a sign.

2002: My third Valentine’s with Jess. We are living in Prague. I drag him out for a boat cruise on the Vltava river, a stroll the Charles Bridge, and ice cream sundaes. I foot all bills, because Jess isn’t working. Perhaps that was a sign.

2003: My fourth Valentine’s Day with Jess. We are living in my city. Excited, I go all out on a big surprise: expensive suite at a romantic inn, pampering at the adjoining first class spa, and a limo to take us there. I even have champagne for the ride. Wanting to keep this a surprise, I tell him the night before to be ready at noon the next day, and not ask questions. He flips out. No one should tell a man what to do, see. He yells, he screams, I cry. In addition, all I get in return is a card, because he’s not working. That was definitely a sign.

2004: My fifth Valentine’s Day with Jess. I remember a bouquet of flowers, bought with money borrowed off a relative. He’s still not working. I remember nothing else about that day because obviously, it was so memorable. A sign.

2005: My sixth Valentine’s Day with Jess. We are long distance again. He sends some downloaded songs to my inbox on the 15th. Signs, signs.

2006: Seventh, but not with. The night before Valentine’s Day I, in so many words, told him to drop dead. My permanent Valentine is now my dog, as Jess and I are officially done. All signs have come to pass.

La list. A few shining moments, I’ll admit, but all in all, no wonder I call it V-Day. Not V for Valentine, but for the day the Allies stormed Europe in WWII. Massacre and carnage.

But apparently not all is lost, because upcoming is 2007: Good lord, girlfriend, I’m having a Valentine’s Day with Sandy. Sandy Sandy Sandy. What would me, circa 1992 (and thereafter), have to say about this?

Back then, besides open-mouthed shock, no idea. Nowadays it’s giddy steps, childish frivolity and raw, unadulterated panic.

Valentine’s Day is coming. What on earth am I going to do?

No post yet, no post just quite yet.

But would it make you feel better if I told you that very soon, within hours in fact, you're getting a reeeeally long one?

Starbucks cup, Starbucks cup, wherefore what have you to say, Starbucks cup?

Went for a visit with my mother and sister today; lattes for me and Oli, regular drip for moms. The post-seasonal cups are back, and with them, numbered wisdom:

The Way I See it #147:

Change the world, but be careful how you change with it.

That was on the side of moms' cup, and is truly something to ponder. If I become Queen of the Universe, will it go to my head, or will I still be Jenny from the block?

The Way I See it, #59

Having two older brothers is a healthy reminder that you're always closer to the bottom than you are to the top.

Oli's cup, ironically enough. No older brothers, but Oli reminded me every day that it was I who fetched the remote control, but was never permitted to change the channels.

And at last, on mine:

The Way I See it, #47

Wild salmon are the canaries of our world.

What?

I either need better patience to decipher these things, or seek out ye superior coffee house. Moving along, then.

Why I Hate My Job, Reason #68: Being cowed into scheduling changes.

Why I Love My Job, Reasons 20&21: Food and Sex

After endless semesters of computer, art and oh-so-special classes, I have finally been vindicated with two most interesting courses: Nutrition, and Human Sexuality.

Anything that can teach me more about healthier eating and better screwing is, in my opinion, gold.

Due to scheduling conflicts (see above reason #68), the sex class will start late. My outstanding performance in the shrine de l’amore, a.k.a Sandy’s bedroom, will just have to wait. But Nutrition, I can talk about that.

Nutrition Class The First

Assemble in class. Mia looks nervous. I can understand why, she’s out of her design element. Reassurances all around. Enter, teacher.

Muscles di Fazio (why am I surrounded by so many Italians?) is soft-spoken, balding, and has biceps to spare. Think the impossible lovechild of Colm Feore and Mr. Clean.

After the obligatory introduction, attendance and curriculum skip through, class began with Muscles’ personal mantra: Health is the mental, social and physical well-being in the absence of disease.

It was easy to assume this was his mantra. He wrote it on the board three times. It’s easy to accept, too, that we are healthy inside and out if the sickness is not there.

Next, nutrients. For quick and easy explanation, Muscles said that A nutrient is something in food that we need.

Now, what exactly is it that we need? Micro and macro nutrients of course, stuff like protein calcium, carbohydrates, fats and iron. All necessary in certain bits and pieces for one’s DRI: Dietary Recommended Intake.

Bla bla bla. Oh yes, and, coconut oil & herbal teas are delightfully good for you. Just not together, unless a chef has inspired something dramatic to combine the two.

To be honest, the whole lecture was a jumbled mess. First classes usually are. Figures here, vitamins there, this is bad and this is good and just make sure you don’t yadda yadda.

Talking instead of really listening didn’t help, and never will be – part of my job, see – but I’ll get it soon. I always do. And, Nutrition Class The First wasn’t a total loss.

Take, for instance, what Muscles said halfway into the lesson: Man cannot live on bread alone.

Aha. I believe I said something on the same vein in a Calorie Chronicles episode. Leading nutritionists and myself agree that if you’re going to be a healthy bug, skip off the straight lettuce.

If you’re going to be a healthy bug, skip off the lettuce diet. Actually, just skip off the diet, period.

Just a few days until Nutrition Class The Second…

Fortune cookies make me laugh.

A novel idea, when you think about it: bedpan-shaped Asian cookie sought after for the tiny piece of paper contained within, possibly containing your life’s kismet, or lucky lottery numbers.

The funniest thing of all is that they aren’t actually Asian, but Californian by design. And, I have to admit that every so often I’m tickled pink when my cookie contains not just one cathartic slip of paper, but three or four that are closely stuck together.

Now, if only they actually said cathartic things. Or better yet, fortunate things. More often than not, those little pieces of paper are wise old anecdotes starting with Confucius say, or complete bull, like You live near the ocean.

Nice try, no cigar. And, no ocean. But at least it was better than, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. How about telling me something I don’t know, wiseass cookie.

Friday night, Sandy and I ordered Chinese from the Lotus Flower restaurant. We were too lazy to go out, and/or prepare anything on that greatest night of the week. Rice noodle satay and Kung Pao beef for me; orange chicken and sweet ‘n sour spareribs for him.

We share, though. We always do.

Post Chinese takeout is the ritual of the fortune cookie, or in this case, eight or nine of them. The Lotus Flower was quite generous in that department. And, no matter how stuffed I may be, I always end meals like that with a fortune cookie.

There are rules, too. First rule is, just one cookie. Second, I break it in half while it’s still in the package. Third, I unwrap it, and fourth is to eat half before reading the fortune. I have this nutty feeling that just in case that piece of paper says something auspicious, I already have to be crunching the cookie power so it’ll come true.

I cracked, unwrapped, crunched and unfolded my paper. Here’s what it said:

Someone from your past will have a profound affect on the future.

That upped an eyebrow. I looked over at Sandy, who’d fallen asleep on the couch, and playfully tickled his navel. He smiled and caught my hand, then pulled me over for a kiss.

Definitely my past. Positively my future.

The next morning Sandy and I took that blessed opportunity to sleep in, and do what we always do on lazy weekend mornings when there are a couple hours to spare: watch documentaries while having breakfast in bed.

Chinese takeout is always better the next day, and we sat cross-legged at our little boudoir picnic. Sandy stuffed pieces of sparerib into my mouth; I responded in kind with the orange chicken.

While bringing it all back downstairs, I noticed the still significant pile of fortune cookies. Chose another, went through the motions and was rewarded with:

Look around. You have much to be thankful for.

Freaky. Especially since that’s another certainty in my life these days, having much to be thankful for. I so do. I finished my cookie, meandered my way upstairs and slipped back under the covers with my lovely, wrapping my arms around him and resting my head next to his.

Now, what’s the lesson in all of this? Confucius say that maybe, just maybe, there is a wise old sage at the fortune cookie factory, thinking of you as he writes your fortunes.

Or, that life’s important messages come to you in the most unexpected forms. How fortunate.

Now, stop reading this and go look around. You have much to be thankful for.

Late summer, wine flowed. Late fall and this winter’s birth, it was champagne.

I brought my car Sgt. Joey Pepper, or just Joey, home on a blustery, late November evening. I hopped the streetcar straight from work, got to the dealership, and signed the papers that made her mine.

Specifics at Mini and the car tutorial took about an hour; power windows, heated seats; which switch did what, etc. etc. And then, the salesman handed me the key. It was a big black laser cut thingamajig, with a MINI crest in black and silver hanging from the ring.

Mini doesn’t call them keys. Keeping in touch with their idiosyncratic customer base, Mini calls them Wings. The salesman put the wings into my outstretched hand, smiled knowingly when I squealed and then said, “Welcome to the family.”

Welcome to the family, he said. The quirky, charismatic car I’d been wanting forever was finally here. And it was all for me.

Baby I will drive my car
Yes I’m gonna be a star
Baby I will drive my car
And yes I will love it

Beep beep’m beep beep yeah!

The Mini dealership, or at least this one, lets their cars go from inside the building, opening a big glass garage door after you start the engine . And then, out you motor. On my own, here we go, driving my very own auto-mobile at that.

Oh, that first drive. I was ecstatic. I was jubilant, elated and skipped seventh heaven while bounding straight to eighth.

I was also a wreck. Over and over in my head flashed Joey’s price tag, a bill my parents had (most lovingly) footed; that five-figure statement of doom that takes me from responsible driver, to squirmy mess.

I can’t bear to disappoint my parents. You can call it a tick or you can call it paranoia, it’s just me. My hands were shaking on that smaller-than-usual steering wheel the Mini is known for, making it seem more like driving in a video game, than driving a real car.

And, wouldn’t you know it, when I was halfway through the drive “Blitzkrieg Bop” came onto the radio. I took that, Joey’s first Ramone, as a clear cut sign that I was right where I was supposed to be.

Somehow, I got back to the units’ house (in one piece), where everyone proceeded to appropriately gush over Joey, and cast some Eastern voodoo.

My family is full of oddities. Mom’s gave me a pouch with a piece of bread, some salt, needle & thread inside that she told me to keep in the glove compartment. It would bring me luck, she said. Her best friend tossed a few blessings in the car’s direction, and Oli hung a super funky St. Christopher medallion from my rearview. St. Christopher is the patron saint of travelers, drivers and surfers.

I’ve traveled, I’ve driven, but that last ticker I’ve never had the chance to try. Note to Self: surfing lessons. One day.

My own voodoo started before I got back into the driver’s seat to get back to my loft. I did what I do before I set foot on every plane I’ve ever been on: I kiss my right thumb, and touch it to the fuselage before stepping inside.

Joey doesn’t have fuselage, but she’s got one heck of a nice body. I kissed my thumb, touched her roof, got back inside and drove off.

It was a smooth journey. Smooth is good.

But we weren’t done with the good luck charms just yet, she and I. Sandy came over that night, with a bottle of champagne which we poured into a couple of glasses, and enjoyed.

No, we didn’t. Not exactly like that, anyway. That bottle wasn’t for us, so much as it was for Joey. See, Sandy’s family has this tradition where every new car that comes onto their driveway gets a bit of a christening. With champagne.

Sandy handed me a bottle of Asti down in my parking garage, and when I popped the cork it flew a good 30 feet. And then, I poured some champagne over each of Joey’s four tires.

Welcome to the family indeed, little pepper white car. May all our journeys be smooth, perfectly uneventful, and totally Rock ‘n Roll.

I look back on that day with a smile. It was a lot of fuss to make for a car, I know. After all, it’s just a car.

But I also know it’s more than that, and everyone who was a part of that day knew it, too. It’s the beginning of something different, no?

100% Real Juice: The Donald

Did you ever think one of these would come from The Donald? As in, Donald Trump?

As if the hair wasn't enough, he had to go and get philosophically correct.

"You must think positively. Think about how fortunate you already are and how much you have to look forward to. You can better your best day at any time. Very surprising things can happen, but you must-and I repeat must-be open to them. How can you fly if you’ve already clipped your wings?"

Alright, he was talking real estate. Big shocker. But read between the lines, and that can be applied to a heck of a lot of things, especially in everyday life.

Warning label of our times: Do not clip your wings. All too often this can happen before you know it. Well said.

Now if only The Donald would get a haircut...

Permeated with character, I tell you. Reeking, in fact. Doesn't it look like she wants to say something?

I am driving Joey, and at a four-way stop with my sister. We are turning left off a one-way street, onto another one-way that leads to a highway ramp. To my right is a car, to my left is another car, and ahead of me is a cable service truck.

Oli likes how I drive, but being the (extremely bossy) lovechild of Mario Andretti and Michael Schumacher, she also likes to direct. Never argue with Oli if it’s driving related, or she’ll run you down. “Dude to your left came first, so you have to wait.”

Duh. “Yeah, I figured. But what about that guy to the right?”

“What about him?”

“We both got here at the same time.”

“So what, just go.”

“But…”

“JUST GO.”

Holy forceful. I take my turn, but still have to ask, “Why did I get to go first?

“Because you did.”

“But…”

“You go first because you’re the girl, and fuck it.”

Well, then. Who am I to argue with sound advice?

It was a good holiday. Holidays are always good, just for the sake of being holidays, but this one had that touch of extra sparkle.

There was a tree. We always have a tree, even if it is a fake one, bedecked with the pastel coloured baubles that moms just adores. There were lots of presents underneath that tree, and we tore into them, as we always do, on Christmas Eve.

I love watching my family open their presents. Like most shopaholics I put a lot of care into who gets what, even if I don’t do most of my own wrapping. I have ten thumbs, so that’s Oli’s job.

Oli didn’t get her Furla bag just yet, but I think she was happy with the bevy of perfumes I’d chosen. She’s one good smelling girl. I’m pretty sure Corey loved his autographed hockey puck, Dad his movies, and moms her gigantic book of world satellite photos. She’s a geography buff.

We all love watching Blue open his present. Christmas is for everyone, after all, even our pets. He fights with the wrapping paper, digging at it with frenzied barks, ecstatic about what’s inside. In this case, an Orbee ball, organic cotton teddy bear with a built in squeaker, and bone-shaped tin full of yogurt dipped biscuits.

I had my own little gift pile too, of course: a flatiron, gift certificates for the local, independently run coffee house; a seahorse tree ornament, and a Mini vest from one of my cousins. As in, the Mini car dealership where I got Joey; not a teensy tiny vest.

Christmas morning at home, we went through our traditions with the best of them: slouched to the table in our pajamas, and ate breakfast with mulled wine. And later on, in the dining room with Moms, Dad, Oli & Corey, Raj & James, all the Eastern European holiday delicacies you could think of, along with meatballs made with currants and port. Thank you, chef James.

Later that night Sandy collected me, and swept me off to his house for a night of kisses, a box of truffles, and a black iPod with Merry Christmas Cheech! YOU ROCK! engraved on the back.

For me. How lucky am I?

In the days that followed, we had together time, sleep-in time, and breakfast in bed time. We watched documentaries on the Discovery channel, and had dinner soirees with friends almost every night. We shopped the post-holiday sales in almost empty stores, drank lots of wine, and fed each other stinky cheese. We talked and talked some more, then rented movies we never finished watching, because falling asleep on the couch, tangled together, won out.

I rang in the New Year by myself. There were plenty of invitations to go out, to party, to do this or that, but I crave solitude every now and then. Especially on that night, of all nights, when I want to look back at what I’ve done, and forward at what I still have left to do.

What have I done? It was an exciting year, can’t deny it. I slimmed down, saw incredible things in more incredible lands; discovered new love in an old one. I got rid of that albatross around my neck, and I’m driving my very own car.

Now, what is it exactly that I want to do?

So much more, really. New Year’s Resolution: one foot in front of the other. Keep going.

My first kiss of 2007 wasn’t delayed that long, and came to me in the early afternoon of New Year’s Day at Sandy’s house, right before he whisked me off to meet his family.

I met a boy’s parents. That’s a big thing. I met my boy’s parents, two lovely and charming people who raised the wonderful man I’ve given my heart to again. True to Italian form, they treated me as my own mother and father would have, and fed me more than I could possibly handle. I also met his sister, brother-in-law and nephew, and the hours passed like minutes to our nonstop chatter.

It was an otherworldly experience, almost. I felt at home.

Back at Sandy’s that evening, drunk on each other and my Christmas box of Godiva truffles, we celebrated each other with that first bottle of Veuve.

One down. Three to go.

It was a good holiday.

We have been lost to each other for so long...

...is the opening line of one of my favourite books. That's The Red Tent, for future reference.

Not quite lost, but away. Breathing. Doing my thing, if you will. Someone asked in the previous post if I was on vacation, and I have been, in a manner of sorts. I didn't leave home or get on any airplanes, but I did take a step back. From absolutely everything.

I humbly ask your forgiveness for recent lack of posting, and thanks much for your patience, as always. It's been a great holiday and, very soon, you'll get to read all about it. I'm looking forward to the New Year, and getting my hands dirty again in the writing world.

Also, if I ever deviate again for weeks at a time without the "not in the country" excuse, you can kick my ass.

Tomorrow, tomorrow. It all comes tomorrow. Cheers.