The Wonderful Foods of Disney

It has been forever and a day since we got back from Disney World (World not Land - Land is in California). We went back in August.

One of the things I did to prepare for the trip was research the restaurants we would be eating at. Partly out of vegan-necessity but part of it because if you are on the meal plan, you have to have reservations for your sit down dinners - or you have to wait forever. Fletchers hate to wait.

So, 2 months before I started searching the Disney website for places for vegans to eat at Disney. There are a lot actually.

But, before I start describing my glorious meals, I must tell you that I didn't keep completely vegan on vacation. HELL - I was on VACATION. I had some baked stuff that more than likely had eggs in it. AND I had some cheese. I love cheese. But I didn't cave and eat ice cream. Oh okay, I did have some whip cream but I'm sure it was edible oil product and not real cream. (God it was good though!)

K.

First night...we went to the Animal Kingdom lodge to a buffet restaurant called BOMA. It is African themed and was recommended by the nice lady who was doling out the reservations on the Disney phone line.

Because it was African, there was a HUGE amount of vegan products. On my plate you can see evidence of the nice salad bar. And the selection of dips (black bean hummus, red bean hummus, and red pepper dip) on the right hand side. The giant flat bread that i dipped is the triangle on the top right on the table.

Next is corn bread, Spanish rice, ratatouille, baked pumpkin and of course, falafel and sauce. Mmmmm. I think I ate my own body weight in falafel!

I recommend Boma because the Animal Kingdom lodge was gorgeous. Because everyone in my family loved the food and because it was so unusual and delicious.

The next day we spent the day at Magic Kingdom. Lunch was an awesome veggie wrap with carrot cake and fries that I wish I had a picture of. It was awesome. Snack - funnel cake with powdered sugar. Messy but good.

And dinner was at the "Crystal Palace". This is a "character dining experience" which I wasn't sure we would like but, it was a buffet where we could watch the amazing fire works show so I thought it couldn't suck that bad.

Turns out, the kids loved the idea of visiting with Winnie the Pooh and friends while they ate.

The food was really basic but fresh and quite nice. I really liked the salads and the breads. Again, all you can eat. I should have stopped eating long before I did but hey, I was on VACATION!

Day 2 we were at a water park - Blizzard Beach where I ate the worst veggie burger of all time. Veggie burgers can be so very hit and miss no matter where you are. I don't blame Disney really.
That night we went to Epcot - to the Fresh Dinner place...I can't remember the name really. It was "family style" dining.

We had big salads with the largest cherry tomatoes I've ever had. They were also the best cherry tomatoes I've ever had. All served with hot biscuits and corn bread. Yes, I ate my own weight in corn bread.

Hubby and the kids got platters of steak, catfish, fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, roasted potatoes and veggies. Later we learned most of the food is grown underneath Disney in their super farm place - we went on a cool tour of the place.

I, as a veggie, got the best risotto ever. Made with veggie stock and peas and asparagus. SO good. Sure, it had Parmesan on it but it was so amazingly good I didn't care.

The next day we were at Hollywood studios. We had excellent Pizza and giant salads at "Toy Story Pizza Planet" which I didn't get pictures of. Frankly, we didn't like Hollywood studios much. We enjoyed the Muppets theatre and the stunt driver show but, we didn't like all the scary rides and the High School Musical crap. ICK.

Dinner was another story!

We went to this 50s diner. Very kitchsy. They check that you don't have your elbows on the table and that sort of thing.

Ben had the best fried chicken he's ever had - or so he said. He also fell in love with collard greens and bacon. Who wouldn't?

And his dessert was gorgeous...photo....

I think it was M&M brownie cake.

It was smothered in whip cream and came with ice cream too!

My dinner was good. It was a rice stuffed pepper with ratatouille (I should really learn to spell that word!) on the side. Good but not very filling.

I could easily have eaten two peppers. AND there was no protein in the meal at all. No beans. Nothing.

It was one of those meals that I'm glad we were on the meal plan or I would have been pissed at paying a lot of money for it.

Dessert was a different story...

I had an angel food cake - most likely full of egg whites - oh well - with berry compote. It was all fresh and yummy!

The dinner was good but we were all hungry later. Sorry Disney, but it isn't exactly filling in the 1950s!

We ate in the German Buffet the next night. It was a cool place where you share tables with other families. We had dinner with a nice lady (it was her birthday) and her daughter. They were from Florida and just there to celebrate her day.

It was a challenging meal for the family though. Wayne told sammy that the schnitzel was chicken nuggets and he ate it - but they he went back to get more, figured out it was pork, and was pissed off.

Ben ate his own weight in mini wieners and sauerkraut.

Wayne loved it all.

I liked the salad part. You can see here - pickled cabbage, roasted potatoes, pretzel bread, apple sauce, carrots, spetzel, and tomato salad. MMMM.

AND all of that while listening to a live polka band. Does it get any better than that?

The last night we went to Planet Hollywood in downtown Disney. I didn't get a picture of my meal. Or the meal of the guy beside me - although I wish I had!
The emo/semi goth kid sitting beside me had vegan fajitas. They fried up onions, peppers, broccoli, tomatoes and stuff and served it with tortillas, lettuce, guacamole and salsa. It looked amazing. And wasn't on the menu. If I'd known about it before I ordered, I would have had that!

As it was, I had yum-o-lish pasta with fresh tomatoes, herbs, peppers and mushrooms. Really huge portion and really really good!

Everyone liked their dinner there - and it was on the meal plan!

I really did think before I left for Florida that I would end up eating nothing but french fries and ice burg lettuce salads the whole week. Instead I had really good meals that for the most part were better balanced nutritionally than I eat at home. Bravo Disney for a good vegetarian menu!

Thanks giving feasts

I had to look back and check last years blog to be sure that I wasn't repeating the same blog again and again and again - you know how easy it is to do that, right?

Today I was asked for my 5 things that I'm thankful for. And I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you. Hahahaha. No really, today I want to talk about the Thanksgivings of my childhood.

As a kid we would work for a week on Thanksgiving projects in art. Making turkeys from potatoes or cut outs of our hands or tissue paper. Sometimes we even did American Thanksgiving crafts and made pilgrim hats and Indian head-dresses. In the 70s it was like we were drunk on the Brady Bunch or something....and we just blindly followed along untouched by the fact that Canadian Thanksgiving is a tribute to the harvest and NOT a copy of a Pilgrim dinner party held centuries ago.

In my family we never did anything normally. Not even thanksgiving. But normal, it has been said, is all relative. Right?


From the time I was born we would always take off on the Thursday before the Thanksgiving long weekend in a "convoy" of the Burt Reynold's variety with all of my cousins following behind. Vans and trucks with trailers attached, making their way across South Western Ontario from Stratford to Sarnia. We would snake our way across the highway stopping at the border to chow down on egg salad sandwiches, cut in thirds and wrapped in tin foil.

We drove across the border (at that time it was a hey-how-ya-doing no passport required kind of border crossing). Our convoy headed over to the state park on the St. Clair river. Camping. We were going camping.

Well, camping of a St. Clair family fashion. Sure, we all had campsites. We put all of our picnic tables together commune style and built a HUGE fire pit. BUT, our main purpose was not to camp in the chilly fall and enjoy the changes in the colours of the leaves. Nope. Our purpose for our visit was to shop. Every day. From sun up to sun down. Target. Kmart. Farmer Jack.

We would go from store to store and load up on whatever we could get our hands on. Cheap underwear and socks! Purses and coats and all kinds of clothes. And because even then in the 70s Americans were fatter than Canadians and we could get unusual and somewhat more fashionable clothing there.

My favourite Thanksgiving outfit was the matching swan sweatervests and checked baby blue gabardine pants my Mom and I got. Awesome early 70s chic!

Often we would go to Mary Maxim the world's (as far as we were concerned) largest craft store. There I began learning from my mother how to stock pile craft projects - so many that I can never be truly finished! When my Mother died - she had about 3 dozen balls of un knit yarn. Hoarding hobbies was a habit that neither of us have ever broken.

We ate well in the US. Sure we were "camping" and did the burgers and dogs on the bbq - but we ate at the Sweden House buffet. Back in the day it was the most awesome buffet ever. I am not certain but I think the lunch buffet was $5. Sure it was! Hell, I was a kid - I didn't know anything about money! It might have been free!

Funny thing about the Sweden House, it was not Swedish food. It was all the goodness of an American buffet. Yepper. Meat - carved meat. Many kinds of potatoes. And I guess there was a salad bar but I don't remember ever visiting it. Of course, all the dessert you could carry.

The blue slushies from Kmart stick in my head as a big deal. We loved those slurpee like drinks - so blue and totally full of air. I can remember getting one and sitting out in the front of KMart and waiting for my mother to meander around the store endless times. She'd pick up nylon nighties and packages of knee highs. It was a happy thanksgiving for all of us.

But no traditional turkey dinner. Not for the St. Clair family. Not ever. We would, on thanksgiving Monday, stop at the Arby's (this is before we had Arby's in Canada) and pick up a dozen junior Arby's sandwiches. Once we smuggled all of our purchases across the border, hidden in the bowels of the trailer, we would stop just outside of London and have our sandwiches. Mmmmm cold roast beef.

But no turkey.

Until one year when my mother got tired of hearing us whine and complain about not having the thanksgiving that all of our friends had.

So she cooked up a turkey on the Wednesday before we left. Put it, all wrapped in tin foil, into the cooler and surrounded it with ice packs.

Off we went to Port Huron with the thoughts of stuffing and turkey and gravy swimming in our heads.

"I'll make the potatoes on Monday" she said.

Every time all weekend someone tried to sneak a bit of turkey my mother smacked their hand. She guarded that turkey like a rabid Tiger guarding its prey- perhaps a dead Zebra! (okay gross analogy but I'm making a point) She was adamant that we have this dinner on Monday and she would be the one to ensure it was perfect.

Monday came - socks and underwear and nighties are bought - and we open the cooler. Out wafts the most horrific smell ever. I was about 11 years old and if I think about it today - 31 years later, I can still remember that smell. It was vile. Barfaliscious. Horrible. Just nasty.

Oh but it got better. As my Mother pulled back the tin foil, the entire turkey was GREEN - grass green with mould and slime. Just awful.

My mother cried.

We all laughed.

Then she cried and laughed. We all still laugh about the thanksgiving turkey that never was. We ate the mashed potatoes and of course, Arby's. Yum. Roast beef sandwiches.

Now the point of me telling you this story is that I wanted you to know, I put a lot of importance on the holiday meals I serve. I am likely compensating for a life time of Arby's. I also know that every time thanksgiving comes I think of my Mom laughing and crying all at the same time over that stupid green turkey. Its the company you keep not the food that you eat that makes the day the day and I give thanks for that.

Crying over you

I was 14 before a boy made me cry.

He wasn't my boyfriend. He was just a boy that I knew. That I liked. He was my friend. Well, in retrospect, I suppose he really wasn't. He made me cry by telling me that no one would love me because I was ugly.

He used my insecurities to manipulate me.

He even had me come back for more - I needed more - I needed to have him completely tear me down.

He said that I wasn't the right person. That I didn't have what it took.

That it was something that I did.

And then he laughed. He laughed AT me - not with me - but at me. And that ripped my guts out through my nose.

I did what you are supposed to do. I kept a stiff upper lip. I said he was full of crap. I stared him down and sat eye to eye with him in full possession of every ounce of self confidence I could muster. I was un-affected.

And as soon as I left - I was a mess. I cried so hard I heaved sobs. I thought in the fashion of a 14 year old that it would be LESS painful to actually be dead than to feel what I was feeling just then. It very likely would have.

But, I stuck it out.

And amazingly, it happened again. Another boy. He and I were making out. He lifted my shirt and traced the silvery spidery lines of my stretch marks. And he laughed. I don't remember what he said - but I remember the laughing.

And at the time, I blocked it out, carried on, let him kiss me again and again and then again - as soon as I was alone - I exploded with that same painful sob.

I remember walking into the kitchen and cutting some cheese and getting some saltines - still crying crying crying and choking on the cheese and crackers the two kinds of salty mixing and making me gag on the tears.

I have a delicate relationship with crying.

I can cry during movies like a normal person. I cry in commercials for Hallmark and at funerals for ANYONE (its the least I can do for them). I cry gently and lady-like. I cry in a controlled manner. I cry for show. But some days I could cry like it was the last time ever.

That pain wrapped up in the same cocoon that contains all that hurt - whether its mine to feel or not - that's how it escapes.

I know I'm not unusual. I know that we all cry.

Hell, I'm crying RIGHT now. For no reason at all. I'm not hurt or sad or upset or lonely or disgruntled or even inconvenienced. I just feel intolerably upset.

My husband tells me that the problem is when I'm upset by something or someone - I don't SAY anything. I let it go. I pretend "fake it till you make it" and the "suck it up buttercup" with my "stiff upper lip" and all that jazz. And then, well then I just break loose. Cry like the blubbering puke I know deep down inside that I am.

I remember going to the doctor once and having my eyes dilated with orange dye. And when I left he handed me a giant WAD of Kleenex. He explained that I would need it later when my nose started to run - orange snot. Where do you think your tears go when you don't cry? Good question. They are just snot.

Today I cried. Tomorrow I'll cry again. For as many times I've cried I've laughed 100 times more. For all those days I forgot or just didn't get around to crying, my guess is that I blew my nose more that day.

As for those boys that made me cry? They were the first and likely not the last. I'm a delicate flower of a girl!

One, Two, Three and Four

You think that the only truth that matters is the truth that can be measured.
If I'm right, then I win.
If, in theory, a 9 gets a 9
then a 3 gets a 3.
If, in theory, you can only move the spaces that you roll on the dice then shit isn't always fair now, is it?
What if a 2 gets an 8?
Is everyone around them bound to check thoroughly and completely that everything is even and in balance?
That rarely happens though, does it?
The Honeymooner's.
I guess really it only happens on tv - The Flintstones, Happy Days, King of Queens, According to Jim...there must be more.

Big fat guy with his trophy wife. How often does that REALLY happen?
Remember that song that went "Three dressed up as a Ni-eye-eeeye-ne"?
You know I had to google it to remember it was Trooper - right?

Well you can say what you like
Be what you wanna be
You can suit yourself baby
But you don't suit me

What makes a 3 a 3?
It's only physical right?

What you can see from far away.

Have you ever seen Trooper? Like they should judge, am I right?
But what is my point today?
The point is, today in the paper they said that the national association for fat acceptance is trying to convince everyone that fat can be healthy.

Steve Harper is running the country I love and he has the ugliest hair of anyone I've ever seen. Its like painted on Ken doll hair.

Madonna is hailed as superfit superstar 50 year old woman and I can see the individual strands in the muscles on her legs and it makes me have a little vomit in my mouth.
The point is, that once a man told me that I was "quite unattractive" and while I think his momma needed to teach him some manners before he gets himself killed, I think he was also a giant idiot.

Who is he to judge?

Well, actually, he is the judge.

And so am I.

And so are you.
Every last ugly warty pimple covered one of us can judge the other.
Because if the only truth that matters is the one that can be measured, today I am a 4.
Please feel free to score yourself below.

"You used to be fun"

Many years ago, I used to be a lot of things.
I have always been tall.
I have always been fat.
I have always been smart, and funny, and nice.
But, much to my regret, I have not always been fun.
Oh I have had fun.
But I haven't always been fun.
Back in high school I knew that I was a weirdo. Frankly, I think most of us do know that. A whole building FULL to over flowing of people who feel that they don't belong. Taught by people who likely feel very much the same way.
I was not fun. I might have had fun. I even might have created some fun - but I, was not fun. I was scared and smart and studious and a slacker. I was a liar and a hard worker and even a thief. I was running away and looking for love but I was not FUN.
My favourite favourite movie of all times, the Sterile Cuckoo with Liza Minelli says it best and every time I watch it I think to myself "she gets me - she really gets me" but really, she likely gets us all when she says, "It's gonna be nice to get away from all these weirdos".
When I left high school, that's what I really thought I'd be doing. But little did I know I would be taking all the weirdos with me - they were weird only because I made them weird. I looked at people like they were different from me, which in all reality they weren't.
At university I spent more days terrified than not. My roommate scared me stupid. We were instant best friends that hated each other on sight.
I didn't have many friends there and the ones I did were weirder than I was.
The gay army cadet poet who lumbered around drinking root beer schnapps from a mug every night.
The girl next door with 6 inch high hair who wore blue mascara on her eyebrows and was having an affair with her 60 year old boss while dating his 20 year old son.
I wonder what ever happened to them?
At that point in my life I sought out like minded people -like the fat girl across the hall who tried to kill herself and had all gay friends- she was like me, right?
These people would not be my weirdos - they were just like me.
Like a pretty girl who wants to be beautiful surrounds herself with ugly girls, I wanted to be normal so I surrounded myself with the super weird. Did it work? No idea. But they were good people and I adored them.
Did I have fun? Sure. Was I fun? I think I was starting to become fun.
I was funny.
I was charming.
I was learning to be fun.
When I was out on my own I was alone and awfully lonely. At 20 I lived in the largest city in Canada with few friends. To be less alone I clung to the friends I had - I cultivated my gaggle of gays and became their diva hag.
I made myself into an amazing companion - I did whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted.
I had the best time - probably the best times of my life.
I just let stuff happen.
I enjoyed everything I did no matter how small or insignificant and as far as I can remember - that is when I used to be fun.
But life encroached on my fun.
I fell in love, which was fun. But it isolated me a bit from my friends.
Then I had kids - again fun - again isolating me from my old kind of fun.
The "let stuff happen" fell out of my life and was replaced with real grown up responsibility.
I am still tall.
I am still smart.
I am still fat and funny and nice.
But I'm the Vice Chairperson of the School Community Council.
And a Manager.
And a Mom.
I am an orphan.
And a wife.
And a Privacy Officer.
I have a mortgage and debt.
I have life insurance.
The dynamic of what makes up who I am has changed.
I still have fun.
Fun is karate tournaments.
Fun is this blog.
Fun is being with my friends the two times a year (maybe) I get to do that.
Am I still fun?
Not every day.
So when someone said "you used to be fun". They weren't wrong. I had no right to be as GUTTED as I felt.
I "used to be fun" though - I suppose I'll always have that.
In that same movie, Liza Minelli gives the most moving speech about how short life is. And it is. But, when I was fun, I had more than my one minute of good things. I know I did. Lucky me.

You know what the trouble is? The trouble is that probably all the good things
in life take place no more than a minute - I mean, all added up. Especially
at the end of 70 years, if you should live so long, you still haven't
figured it out. You spent 35 years sleeping. You spent five years going to
the bathroom. You spent 19 years doing some kind of work you absolutely
hated. You spent 8,759 minutes blinking your eyes. And, after that, you got
one minute of good thing.

Blog-sharing

Yesterday I was off work and trying to clean up my horribly messy house. In the kitchen I found fruitflies and rotting bananas.
Banana cake, I said. Banana cake.

Not loaf - cake.

Too lazy to walk up the 15 stairs to look through my dozens of cook books and WAY too freaking lazy to sort through the shoe box of my Mom's recipes to find Shirley Pugh's banana cake, I googled Banana Cake on my laptop.

I found this site http://seasonalontariofood.blogspot.com/ and a recipe for the most deliscious banana cake ever.

I tried to "vegan it up" but I left in the eggs. Instead of buttermilk I used soy milk with 3/4 tbsp of cider vinegar added to it. And instead of the chocolate icing I used the "Vanilla Butter Cream Icing" from the book Vegan Cupcakes.

The cake is yummy and I didn't end up having to make banana smooties. Again.

Check out that other site too - last week there was a recipe for minted carrots that looks AWESOME........

Do Not Call ME

I don't answer the phone in my own house anymore.
Why?
I hate telemarketing with a white hot burning passion that knows no bounds. I really do.
But, say those of you who know me, you used to work in telemarketing, you used to write telemarketing scripts....
Yes - totally true. I did. And, frankly, if I may toot my own horn, I was quite good at it.
I can write a script to sell anyone anything. And for every reason why they don't want to buy whatever it is my telepeople are shilling, I will give you 3 reasons why that reason isn't a good one. And, if you know what's good for you, and I will tell you that it is good for you, you will want to buy what they are selling. You will. Oh you may regret it later but for now, you will want it.
But in my house, we had 7 phone calls tonight.Three telemarketing in the half hour we were eating dinner - all pushing doors and windows - and like I said, all during dinner.
I say "hello".
They start their speech and I hang up quietly.
That was for the first 3 calls.
Then SeyHuhn called for Ben. I swear he talks on the phone more than I do.
One more telemarketing call from a real estate agent.
I did the same thing, hung up.
And another for doors and windows. By the time this one came, I was getting pissed off. Really pissed off.
I had been thinking about all the things that I had been reading about the miracle promised by the "Do Not Call Registry" through the government. I'm sure you all read all about it. Well, I was there in the very beginning. I remember going to meeting at the CMA - Canadian Marketing Association years ago and hearing about the do not call registry. You see, to people who market the world, the telephone is the holy grail of sales.
"The do not call registry is on its way!" spoke the scary man in his scary booming voice from the podium. The ominous tones of sure sales campaign failure echoed through the room in the airport hotel conference centre. You could hear, slightly, in the background the theme from Jaws...da duh....da duh....da duh....dun dun dun dun.......
We all sat, mesmerized contemplating careers in the wonderful world of home decorating or retail merchandizing. But no, they told us. This registry is not for us! Its not for "legitimate" marketers. Its for the fly by night window and door companies...THOSE are the companies that will go down when all of Canada signs on for the DNCL.
BECAUSE>>>>>>>>>>>
the DNCL does not stop your bank from calling you - that means insurance, credit cards and other bank products - they can still call.
Political parties can still call you for any reason.
Oh - and any place where you have a pre-existing relationship - they can call you. For example, your cable company, your phone company, your electric company or the company that provides your gas....all those people can call you.
And surveys - well any one can call you to conduct a survey.
Let me tell you how the call is going to go now....
Hi, can I speak to Mr or Mrs. Feltcher.....?
Hello Mrs Feltcher - I am
calling to ask you a few questions - do you have time to take a survey? Great.
When did you last purchase windows?
When did you last purchase doors for your home?

Then they start to sell you windows and doors

So essentially no matter what the hell you do, register or don't register for the Do Not Call List it will make NO difference or VERY LITTLE difference to how many and what kind of calls we get. And I got a bunch of calls in a row.
Back to my story - I was pissed.
The little girl started in on her spiel for, you got it, windows and doors. And I got pissed, sighed - one of those big heavy sighs and then I hung up.
I just hung up.
Not slammed down the phone but hung up.
Then came last call.
It was a man.
May I speak to Mrs. Fletcher.
Yes. Speaking.
And this is what he said to me
"Can I interest you in some free menopause medication bitch?"
and then he hung up.

When I *69-ed the number, of course, it could not be reached - the cornerstone hiding technique of the fly by night windows and doors people.
"Bravo" co-worker of frustrated telemarketing chick - "Bravo!"

Sure, I was a bitch, and I deserved the snarky call back.
Is the do not call list going to help that?
Nope.
People are still going to get paid minimum wage to make those calls.
And people, like me are still going to be bitchy and hang up.

In a Rush

When I was in grade 7, back in 1979 (yepper) there was a big push on fitness in Canada - "Particip-action" they called it. Everyone was made to exercise. But, exercise in that nonsensical 70s way: situps and chinups, jogging and jane fonda-esque workouts. "Lets get physical physical" Perhaps this was the Olivia Newton John headband era - I can't really remember.
But anyway, my school started an after school running program as part of this shift to health and fitness sanctioned and supported by the government. So, like a good girl, I didn't join. Frankly, I'm sure you can guess this, I've never been much of a joiner or a jogger.
But, all the boys joined. And after school every day, they would run around the block 5 times. They ran around the block that I lived on. Lucky me.
What I decided to do to participate in the health and fitness craze was run home and watching from my front porch.
Each day when school ended and all the running keeners would sprint to the gym to change into their 70s adidas shorts and absorbent terry cloth wrist and headbands, I would sprint home and sit on the porch.
I would quickly change my clothes into something I thought of as alluring (at the time anyway). Shorts and t-shirts that showed off my 13 year old good legs and bigger than average boobs were what I picked. Sure I was already fat - but I could flaunt what I had even then.
I would poise myself in full view - sitting sideways on the stairs, Tab in one hand and novel in the other. I would pretend to read carefully chosen novels like Catcher in the Rye and Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. Things that if you just were jogging leisurely by my house you could tell by the cover what i was reading.
Each day I did this for about a week - watching the joggers from overtop of my book - and reading nothing.
Eventually, a guy I knew from class, Mike and his friend Steve stopped to chat. "Want a drink?" I said.
Sure they did. And Steve stopped jogging and sat with me and Mike jogged away.
We talked about the novels I hadn't read. We talked about music. And we talked about the world in general.
I was in HEAVEN. I adored Steve and had forever. And here he was talking to me. Eventually, he stopped going jogging altogether. He would just come over. We would take my record player out on the front porch and listen to Rush - Moving Pictures. Later, we morphed that into Duran Duran, Rio and so many others. But, we started with Rush.
It was the very first time I used "sex as a weapon". The very first time I figured that the combination of my tits and my brains were a good thing. And that men liked both.
I was thinking about you the other day - thinking about how I haven't heard from you in ages. I need to put on my short shorts and a tight t-shirt and sit on my porch, pull out a novel and put on Moving Pictures.
But maybe you're still just jogging by my house. Not that you're not interested. But sometimes life just makes you stick with the program and keep jogging by.
Whichever, I do have my Tab and my novel, that I SHOULD really read - and of course, Rush to keep me occupied. I'll just wait here.

"the random wanting is my truth"

"the random wanting is my truth"

The random wanting is my truth
it is - my truth

I am a big ball of half-complete and contradictory truths
Terms I confuse and over write
and right now all i want is to hear you beg
I will oblige
though i doubt that will resolve any of the contradictions

I doubt that it will fix the truth
truths
wantings
I doubt that it will solve a thing

The random wanting is my truth
The truth that will heal me
and no doubt set me free

Just a pair of earrings

This week, as per my last post, I am waiting for my Aunt Jeanne to die. I started trying to think why she was such an important part of my life. She is my great Aunt, we really shouldn't be that close, right?
But really with the weird way that my family morphed into itself and over itself - its not all that illogical.
But my Aunt Jeanne was kind of special. She taught me important stuff about old fashioned manners.
Aunt Jeanne never forgot a birthday. We each got a card with $10 in it every birthday until we were 18 years old. We also got Christmas gifts - every year. At 18 we were cut off because we were adults. Fair enough.
But every year, she gave me a card.
As a kid I likely thought - "oooh free money!"
But, as an adult, I take that from Aunt Jeanne and I send out cards to my nieces and nephews every year with money or a gift. Birthdays and Christmas because I want to be THAT Aunt, just like Aunt Jeanne, that NEVER forgets.
My kids got the money in an envelope from Aunt Jeanne every year too. And while we only see her once or twice a year and they very likely forget who she is from visit to visit, since they have been old enough to draw I have made them send a thank you card. For the birthday money and for the Christmas money too.
This Christmas Sammy sent a letter thanking Aunt Jeanne for the Walmart gift card he got for Christmas and for the $10 he got for his birthday because he saved up all of this money and bought an Nintendo DS with Pokemon Pearl.
The next week I got an email from my cousin saying that Aunt Jeanne wanted to know what "those things" were. How cute is that?
But my kids got it - they GOT the need to write the thank you letter. You reward thoughtfulness with thoughtfulness back.
Getting stuff - even money - from someone thoughtful I hope makes them thoughtful too.
When I graduated from high school Aunt Jeanne and her husband, Uncle Ken, gave me a pair of earrings.
This was 1984 and everything was all Madonna-esque. Think Annie Lennox's punked up bright red buzz cut.
Pearl drop earrings.
UGH.
I accepted them, said my "thank you"s and never wore them.
The are pearls.
I was 17.
Ugh.
When I got married I wore my Grandmother's pearls. Do you know what went perfectly with them? The pearl drop earrings.
Over the 11 years that had passed, the pearls had yellowed slightly and they were just a perfect match.
I wore them for the wedding and then I put them away in their velvet box.
When my cousin Amy got married, do you know what went perfect with her wedding dress? Those same pearl drop earrings.
I'm not sure why Aunt Jeanne gave those earrings to me. I didn't get any other graduation presents - not even from my parents. But they meant something and I'm not sure what.
Who knows, maybe we pass them along generation to generation as the earrings that go with wedding dresses.
Maybe we should pass along Aunt Jeanne's rum ball recipe as the greatest rum ball recipe ever on the planet.
Maybe we pass along her New Years Day dinners or stories of her golfing and winning at the age of 80 and how she ran around town until just this past summer.
There are a lot of cool things we could share about her. But for me, her thoughtfulness is what touches me always.

A Matter of Time

I got an unusual unwanted email tonight from my cousin Janice. She said that my Aunt Jeanne,her Mom, is in paliative care in the hospital and its only a matter of time.

Only a matter of time.

A matter of time.

Time for her, matters.

I get that time matters for all of us.

Its all we have really. But, for my Aunt Jeanne, this weekend, time is ALL that matters.

From what I hear, her family is with her.
From what I know, this is the worst time for them.

With my dad, when he had a matter of time, we sat with him around the clock and waited for him to stop breathing.

Just waited and every half minute, hoped that it would be his last gasp.

We just wanted him to stop. Stop having time to matter.

But as with all things, you can only control what you can control - and as we all know - no one controls a goddamned fucking thing.

Poor Aunt Jeanne.

Think about it.

As if this was your very last weekend.

The last weekend that mattered.

You can't GO anywhere.

You might not be able to talk.

You can't run or walk or be alone.

What do you want to do with your time?

If you can see your family - you can likely see them scared.

Do you want to die?

Do you just want to go?

Or do you want more time?

I don't have a smart smarmy answer for you.

I don't have anything clever to say about how I would like to eke out every last second I have to be with the people I love - and if you are reading this, you may very well be one of them.

I wish I could say I'd fight.

But I might not.

I might just wish the clock would run out.

Like it was just a matter of time.

I'm late I'm late I'm late

I had really meant to write more on here. And I still do mean to write more. But, I've been working on this blog that is totally blocking me.
Its about when I was 11 years old - so, I'm reaching way way way back.
I'll finish.
I'll move on.
Until then.....enjoy this...