Eating Local

I recently read this article "10 Reasons to Eat Locally" and while most of the reasons make sense:
- tastes better
- reduces pollution from shipping
- reduces or eliminates preserving chemicals
- eliminates the possibility of bio-terrorism (that one is a bit of a stretch but given what happened with spinach and carrot juice last winter - who am I to judge!)
.....it wasn't until this morning that it all came together for me.

Today for breakfast I fancied a tomato sandwich. We don't have any tomatoes today - well - that's strictly not true - we have grape tomatoes (YUM) but I wasn't about to eat a sandwich with 15 grape tomatoes in it! WAIT - we are growing tomatoes in the yard! I looked outside and most were green. But on closer inspection, we found one orangey-red perfect tomato. So - we picked it. Took it from the backyard to the kitchen - like 15 feet - and cut it up onto toast.

Yum yum yum. That is the difference with local produce. That RIGHT there - a tomato that tastes like a tomato, isn't woody or gross.

What else do we have in the garden?

I'm making pasta salad for dinner. We added peas and carrots - FROM THE BACKYARD. I cut up one of our cucumbers with thin onion slices and I'm making quick pickles for dinner too! I feel like a freaking genius. MY family grew the food we are eating. Ben picked the carrots he planted. And while none of Sammy's jalapeno peppers are ready yet, I suspect that their arrival will coincide with the reddening of more tomatoes! We also have spinach coming out of our ying yang and herbs aplenty - anyone need any chives or mint?

This is the purpose to me of local produce. Its cool to have our own food - there is a sense of definite accomplishment for having things grow. Sure, we still need to buy bananas but hey, its kind of fun to not have to buy tomatoes.

Maybe next year we'll do zuchinni...garlic.....or eggplant....watermellon.....maybe even pumpkins!

Table for One

There was a Pity Party at my place tonight and everyone was invited! Woo hoo - although I didn't see any of you there.
I got dumped/dissed/practically stood up. And if any of you ever wonder why I don't have girl friends, this is why (and before you start bitching - you don't count - you know who you are)!

I was supposed to meet the girls from work - well, technically where I used to work - at 7pm tonight. Massive amounts of emails had been exchanged as had messages on MSN and Facebook. Much to-do had been made. Then one cancelled on Wednesday. There's always one.

So today in the afternoon, I took as shower and blew my hair dry, which frankly, nowadays, is a rare occurance. Not the shower, but the blow dry - what am I blowing my hair dry for when I have no where to go? I put on makeup, brushed my teeth and used the rarely used mouthwash (again, not that I'm a pig, I just hate mouthwash).

I put on pants - full lenght pants, not capris (again - tres rare nowadays) and put on shoes that were neither flip flops nor crocs. I wore jewellery. Okay, well, I always wear jewellery - but I wore jewellery that matched my outfit. I looked quite presentable as a matter of fact.

So 6pm rolls around and I still don't know where, specifically we are meeting. I text. Nothing. 6:15 rolls around and I call - voicemail. If I am to be two towns over by 7pm I need to leave at 6:30. At 6:25pm I get a call - "yes well, can we reschedule - see we both have other stuff to do and well another time would be better...you understand - okay great."

No. Not okay. Not great. I don't go out much. Ever. And I was really looking forward to grown up drinks in a bar with people I like who aren't my family. And no, I'm not okay. I'm sad. Really desperately so.

So, I decided since I was all dressed up I should go out. My husband refused to go with me. You see, he had already started making taco meat and he wanted to watch Family Guy re-runs. I was refused for cartoon reruns and ground turkey.

I will go to the movies then - cause I like the movies and I will go alone. I used to go alone all the time before I was married. Why not? I'll tell you why not. Because I live in suburbia and no one does anything alone. The megaplex was packed with couples and groups.

I chose a particularly depressing movie on purpose so that I could cry. And I did. I cried like the lonely loser I am into my giant bucket of salty popcorn and jumbo diet coke. Oh yes I did.

I don't want to be a loner. I don't want to not fit in with the other Moms. I don't want to have, as Rick says, 4 best friends, none of which live in the same area code as me. I don't want to have relationships by email and fax and phone and text message that leave me feeling cared for and appreciated but more than just a little empty and alone. I want people who love me and enjoy my company and want to be with me. I don't want to be less important than reruns.

So yes. Pity Party. One night only.

The lodger

I used to have this roommate named Margaret....that's how I used to start my stories, and you all know how I love a good story, about Margaret. But, as I began this, I realized that Margaret was more than a collection of humourous anecdotes. Oh yes, she was insane. And a bit of a bitchy cow, but that chick had some major league problems too.

Margaret and I met when she began working at Addition Elle, a clothing store for fat chicks, back in the 1980s. To tell you the truth, there was no skill involved in working in fat lady fashion in the 80s - we were all just so grateful to not be wearing men's husky lee jeans and cords with a big oversize tshirt that we would have paid any price at all for the bit of panache that these stores offered. Which, in a way is good because while I had style - oh yes I did - Margaret had zero and while she could sell anything, I could NOT. (If that ever comes up, make a mental note, I cannot sell anything - if I attempt to sound sincere it sounds fake and if I am sincere it sounds more fake. Its best to have me run the place or go fetch stuff.)

Margaret and I became friends because we were constantly thrown together on the night shift. At the time, I was working and going to school and she was doing the same. We both worked as many nights and weekends as we could muster. She was an Admin Assistant at an Insurance company. She had gone to college - to study admin stuff and fancied herself an accomplished typist and short hand taker person - who was I to argue?

At that time, she was living in a rented house and I was living with evil roommate number 2. Soon the situation with E.R.#2 became unbearable and I was forced out essentially on to the street. Margaret, god bless her heart, took me in. Not only me, but also my cat, Nab.

It was clear from the start that although I was living with Margaret we were not roommates in her eyes - she considered me a lodger. Which to me was fine because it meant I didn't have to share in all the unpleasantness that was hydro and heating bills and the crap that was mowing the lawn and shovelling sidewalks....or so she lead me to believe.

Nab and I settled nicely into our super-lavender tiny little bedroom in the 2 bedroom bungalow at Glencairn and the Allen. Nab got along nicely with Margaret's dog, Mandy but did not get along well at all with her cat, Fluffy.

Fluffy was anything but fluffy. She was scrawny and bony and didn't have an ounce of kindness or compassion in her at all. She was also one of the first disagreements that Margaret and I had. You see, every morning, Margaret would open a can of food for Fluffy and set in on the dining room table and Fluffy would eat straight out of the can. When did she pick up the can and put it in the recycling/garbage you ask? NEVER. When I finally broke down and cleaned up (which royally pissed her off) there must have been nearly 100 empty cat food cans - oooh little but of throw up.....it was so icky I can't even tell you but, I was a lodger....remember? Not my deal. Nab ate in my room.

Margaret didn't like to clean the litter box either. She preferred to let Fluffy, and as time wore on, Mandy, just pee where they wanted and crap when they had to. The WHOLE basement was full of well, full of crap. It was a horror - an absolute horror.

But, like I said Margaret had problems. She was the youngest in a big family by about 15 years. (Again, if you are making mental notes, I'm going to say don't try for one last baby when your next youngest is 15....) Her father died when she was a kid so she and her mother were super close. Until her mother had a stroke when Margaret was 25. Of course, she still lived at home. She'd never been on a date, had a boyfriend or been kissed - she lived a sheltered life.

As the siblings stood around Mom's hospital bed, they had to decide - pull the plug or let her go on indefinitely on the machines. Margaret said - let her fight - but, she was alone. They pulled the plug - the doctors said it would only be hours - but she lived for days - lingered and died. Margaret stayed the whole time - and watched her poor mother die. It was horrible for her.

But, it got worse. Everything that Mom owned was left to all the siblings equally - so one week after the funeral, the siblings put the house up for sale and kicked Margaret's ass to the curb. That's how she ended up in the rental. She had a nice nest egg, some lovely old furniture, an inferiority complex the size of a house and a woe is me the world hates me attitude she carried everywhere she went. To be fair, she came about her sadness honestly, as do the rest of us.

Life with Margaret was always interesting. You could never know when she was going to go off on one of her weird tyrannical screaming fits. Well, and she had the funniest haircut I've ever seen. She had a bad fat lady haircut.

Now, anyone out there who says they don't know what I mean when I say fat lady haircut is full of shit. You all do. Its kind of a modified Dorothy Hamill cut from the 70s....only in a way unattractive way. Longish short hair at the front and shaved sides and shaved at the back. If you have any neck fat you are fucked - it looks ridiculous. She had that hair all frosted and tipped within and inch of its life.

She was also cursed with the fat lady back fat phenomenon. Its horrid when it happens - and it happens to the best of us. But the combination of fat lady hair with a neck fat roll and fat lady back fat phenomenon is unfortunate - add into that extremely low self esteem, a bad attitude and the misfortune of wearing nothing but pink and floral patterns and you are in for one hell of a bad time.

Margaret and I used to take road trips in her HUGE car that she inherited from her Mom - in my head its a K-car...We would always call them "fat chick road trips" and each began with a trip to 7-eleven for snacks. Sweet teeth indulged, we would head out to Southwestern Ontario where she would mostly hang with my Mom. Although attempts were made to socialize her into her own age group, with peers and introduce her to people (read: men) she was hesitant to do this and again, add in her bristly nature and out attempts were few!

Time went on and Margaret eventually got me a job at the insurance company where she worked (which if you are keeping track is where I met my husband so its not all bad!). Each day we would leave the house in its semblance of chaotic disorder. When we returned home at night, the tv would ALWAYS be on, with a cat (hers or mine) perched on top of the cable box having turned it on with a wayward paw and the dog sitting there watching it. The dog was insane and sat with its dog-ass on the couch and its paws on the floor. I think Mandy thought she was people.

It became harder and harder to live with Margaret. She didn't like me going out. She didn't like me staying in. She hated it when I cleaned up. She hated it when the house was a mess. She was getting more and more unpredictable and weird. My thought was often that she just needed to get laid. Maybe that would have solved a multitude of problems.

In fact, she took a trip to England once over Christmas vacation to stay with her aunt. She met a nice English guy in his late 40s, single, who lived with his mom. And she fancied him rotten. So much so, she arranged to go back to England in the spring - just to see him again - but this time he ignored her. Thus making it the least successful and second most expensive second date in history (I'll tell you about the most expensive second date some other time!).

Near the end of our time together, her dog barfed in the front hallway near the door and she simply threw down a newspaper and walked around it for weeks and weeks and weeks. The smell was obscene. I had to leave - I had to.

I decided to bid a hasty exit. She was not impressed. She yelled and screamed. I was cheating her and treating her mean - AFTER ALL SHE HAD DONE FOR ME! But I moved anyway - in with roommate number 4 across town. She all but threw things at me as we loaded up my stuff. I don't think I'd ever seen my cat so very happy!

Years later Wayne and I were walking in the Eaton Centre and we heard someone calling my name from miles away.....faintly - "Sandra - Sandra St. Clair....". Who was it but insane Margaret! She chased me through the mall until Wayne and I got out on to Yonge street and lost her in a crowd our hearts beating with a combination of relief and hillarity.

I was never quite sure she was all that stable. And while I don't really blame her for being unstable - I have a healthy fear/respect for the instability.

The cottage

I could write a blog about the cottage and how weird it was to be unplugged totally for a whole week of no internet. And I could write about how the children started making out verbal wills the night when the power went out for 4 hours as they felt that they were going to die. And I suppose I could write about the plight of the mother on vacation that still has to cook and clean and do everyone's bloody dishes. I could write about how nice it was to just have time to read and about the wonderful fantabulous books that I read. I could write about how vacations make strange bedfellows - about choosing good companions - about how everone made me nuts and how I value my private time. But I won't.

The cottage was fun. I won't do it again soon - but neither will I go to Frankenmuth Michigan again soon - that was last year's vacation (sure it had 7 pools and a mini putt inside the hotel but, people, it was LITTLE BAVARIA 24/7!)

I think that the best solution for family vacations would be to take them separately. Each person go it alone for a few days....see how that works out. Then, when you come back, everyone is happy to see each other!

My vacation isn't over it seems. My husband is still off work this week. So, tomorrow, I am going to get my nails done - and not worry how long it takes. I may get my hair cut this week too. Oh yes....but you know, I'm still cooking and cleaning and doing the damned dishes.

The lovely people of Huron County have turbines that generate electricity interspersed amongst their corn and soybean crops. The change the landscape sure - but its so cool to think about the electricity they generate. Its good to know that my composting and recycling isn't the only effort we are making to save the world. Go Huron County!

Beerfest

For the last 25 years I have spent my life surrounded by crowds of gays, gaggles of faggots and legions of lesbians so that now I find it quite odd to spend the day in with a whole bunch of heterosexuals. There is something sociologially intriguing about the heterosexual community when gathered in multitudes of hundreds.
Today my husband, my friend and I went to Beerfest. It is a gathering of people - largely 20 somethings and 30 somethings - at Old Fort York in the shadow of the neon bedecked CN Tower. You can't buy better people watching than exists at this event - its like gay pride - only without the gaiety!
Year one when we attended our pleasure came not only from the beer but from watching the 19 year old tipsy girls in little skirts teeter on their very high heels that they wore - not realizing that this place "Fort York" had grass instead of a dance floor. It was a very fun day.
Year two, there were some especially fun bits. Drunk guy who couldn't find his friends - we spent HOURS passing drunk guy as he got drunker and drunker and drunker - until we finally found him in the drunk holding pen at the end of the evening. It was a happy ending though as this is also where his friends found him!
The heterosexual drunk guys are great to watch. I like the way that large groups of them will wear matching ugly tshirts or unfashonable hats - the gays would NEVER do that.
Perhaps the best part is near the end of the evening as they start becoming unable to walk and hugging each other to hold each other upright. And as Doug says, they look at each other like they are either going to kiss or fight and frankly it could likely go either way and no one would remember.
This year we went to the BBQ expo with Ted Reader - as we usually do. He was making MEATZZA and 3 inch thick porterhouse steaks. I watched fascinated - the meatzza had a base or hamburger instead of crust - cause what man wants to fart around with carbs - and was covered with cheeses, chicken, steak, saucage and bacon. It was a heart attack on a plate. Of course when it was cooked - he invited me to be one of the people on stage to try it - and I just couldn't. I have been trying really hard to walk the vegetarian line. Something told me to just say no thank you and following my instincts was right.
Reader launched into a huge diatribe about how vegetarians are people who can't hunt fish or kill anything. They should belong to PETA - People who eat tasty animals....oh - the men love that kinda talk when they are drunk and full of meat!
Another thing that I noted about beerfest versus pride was the men. Basically all men look alike - right? Gay straight drunk or not. At any gay event you will get a contingent of what are affectionately known as "bears". The bear for those of you not in the know is a big weighty usually bearded, plaid clad muscular or just plain fat guy. Not that there is anything wrong with that. At a gay event I'm going to go out on a limb and say 1 bear for every 1o atendees. At Beerfest - 1 bear for every 4 people. Fun.
As the evening wears on (and it closes at 10pm) the people get friendlier and drunker - as with any event. Some drunk chick came up and hugged me and kissed me and high fived me. And as Doug said again, the instint is to say - "Happy Pride!" But what do you say at Beerfest? Happy Beerday? Woohoo you're drunk?
Tomorrow I'm going to the taste of the Danforth - where I will be again surrounded by people - but with kids. Sunday, its Wonderland. Somehow its not quite the same. But Pride and Beerfest- those were some good times.

Taking one for the Team

Years ago, I was a working woman in a man's business filled with women. To be more specific, I was working in group insurance, with a partner company that provided insurance to groups of people - mainly in Unions. Amalgamated Transit, CAW, Electrical workers, Construction Workers and my personal faves The Brotherhood of Maintenance of Way (railroad guys). A couple of times a year, the head of the conglomerate, Chuck, and all the Union Leaders would meet. Normally the insurance company sent the account manager to represent the company.

Well, the account manager had moved on and there was no one in the company who knew more about the account than me - but eek eek eek - as politically incorrect as it was the company couldn't send me -cause I'm a girl. The Union boys apparently are all just that boys and there was no place for a lady like me amongst them. Someone had the brilliant idea of sending a boy - Giorgio - and sending me as his beard - insurance beard. Giorgio would do all the talking and I would would be his Cyrano. Hell, it meant a free trip - so why not!

So Giorgio and I headed off like a pair of muggins to the gorgeous St. Andrew's By the Sea. Wonderful place - lousy trip on a tiny plane. G didn't tell me that he was air sick. But he was - as noted on this trip and others to follow.

We were unable to get in to the big resort where all the important dudes were staying - but were put up in the B&B accross the street from the resort called - Pansy House. I shit you not - Pansy House. It was nice - all hardwood and doilies and quilts.

Day 1 was about play - Day 2 about work.

Day 1 - Giorgio treats all 15 delagates to golf. I sit back at the B&B and read a book. The way the world works. Let him do the schmoozing - I didn't need to put myself out!

Dinner on day 1 was to be at Archies - right on the Bay of Fundy - and aren't we lucky - its lobster season.

Now Giorgio and I walked to the restaurant and on the way divulged our most innermost secret - I hate fish and shellfish of all kinds. So does Giorgio. Whew. So, when we get there - no matter what the peer pressure of being on the waterfront - we will not eat fish. We both knew that they were the million dollar clients - this was a huge dinner - but we were principled people - we were going to stick to our guns.l

Into the kitschiest restaurant ever in the universe we walked - posture perfect fuelled by our self righteousness. It was the kind of place with plastic lobsters and crabs on the wall strung with old fishing nets. Plastic table cloths in red and white checks and wood pannelling. It was perfect for a restaurant on the Bay of anything.

Everyone was already there. And they had saved us seats - together - which is every networking professional team's nightmare - at the very end of the table. As we take our seats - the waitress places 2 beers in front of each of us and Chuck informs us both that we are already behind - and that they have taken the liberty of ordering for us. Oh great.

Giorgio looks at me and I look at him and we agree - we are going to eat what we're given - neither of us are going to have any principles - we are going to do this for our jobs - take one for the team as it were.

Out comes the starter - it is a HUGE bowl of mussels - and I think to myself -oh goodie - we are sharing the starters - those are like cake batter bowls - I can get away with not eating many. Ah - but I'd never been to the east coast before - of course they weren't for sharing. Each one of us was served a HUGE bowl of mussels - lets say 30- as a starter. I have eaten mussels before. I even liked them once. But I'd shared a bowl of a dozen mussels with 3 other people. I can handle that. But I am nothing if not a team player - and with the assistance of my beer - served 2 at a time - I managed to choke them down. The booze and the superiority I felt watching Giorgio actually gag - helped A LOT!

Out came bibs.

Oh holyshitjesuschrist - they ordered us lobster! And as I'm planning how I'm going to hide my lobster under my potatoes and peas, they set my lobster in front of me. The thing is frigging HUGE but at this point - that's no surprise is it? But, what is my lobster served with? Potatoes? Rice? Salad? Veggies? Nope - lobster and a side order of mussels. More fucking mussels. It's like serving steak with a side order of pork chops. Or lasagne with a side order of spaghetti. Its just not right. Not right and ugh.

Giorgio and I both tried and tried to eat that lobster but rather than taking one for the team it was like taking it right up the ass - over and over and over - from the team - only with gobs of melted butter attached. And let me tell you right here people, when you don't like lobster, not even butter will save it. I would have rather drank the butter straight up.

But, by stuffing some in my napkin, leaving LOTS in the claws and even spilling some on the ground I managed to make it through dinner.

Poor Giorgio barfed all night at the B&B.

Day 2 - we did the presentation for our lovely gentlemen hosts. Giorgio did the intro and sales and I filled in the little things - like FACTS. It worked and all went well.

Together Giorgio and I made a bunch of trips with those boys. I could keep up drink for drink. I could eat their steaks and smelly cheeses. Giorgio could golf and smoke cigars and I wore low cut shirts. We were a great team.

The moral of the story is - teams come in all shapes and sizes. No wait - the moral of the story is that sometimes you just have to take one for the team and suck it up. Or wait - is it that Boys will be boys? Sometimes the greater good requires that you have no principles? Or if I guy named Chuck who controls you career advancement says eat - you eat? Either way.

Girl Parts

Over the last 6 months I have developed something that most women take for granted. I have never before this point in my life had PMS. Yep - that's right PMS. Never had a cramp - been retaining water - broken out - experienced irrational mood swings - nothing. I was totally truly blessed and apparently as were my family and friends.

(If I've been a bitch to you in the past and you've tried to write it off as "its just her time of the month" - dude - it wasn't - I'm just a bitch sometimes - full stop. But thanks!)

As part of what the doctor tells me is "peri-menopause" or early onset menopause I am experiencing all the joys of being a woman - its like all of my Christmases have come at once!

Lets use today as an example:
1) I have a pimple the size of a small town right between my eyebrows and it hurts. Really really hurts. You know the kind - its a pimple alright but its not something that you could satisfyingly pick at or remove. Sucks.
2) I yelled at my husband this morning because he was wearing a baseball cap that the dog chewed to go golfing in - and he couldn't find his good Jay's cap...yep - I'm going to call that an irrational mood swing.
3) I feel like someone is standing on my lower stomach and jumping up and down. I don't know that this is cramps but I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that it is. I understand now why women back in the day took to their beds for a week at a time if this is the hell that they had to endure.
4) I have no ankles and my elastic waist shorts are too tight. Not good.

I totally hate this. How do people put up with this crap? I guess I have been lucky for the last twenty something years. I'm starting to think that I might have lived a different life if I'd gone through this my whole life. I would have never gone to gym class - angered friends and made hasty hormone fuelled decisions...coulda change my whole life.

So - in my anger filled progesterone haze I will sit around and be sore and horrible and just cling to the hope that as quickly as it came it will also go. Bring on the menopause quickly and easily - I welcome your goddess HRT!

Windsor Pride

This weekend was Windsor Pride. Its always hard as someone who is not actually gay to attend an event the purpose of which is to be proud of being gay. I mean - I would if I could but I can't. Not really. And its not like I'm a PFLAG Mom. I'm just an old fashioned Fag Hag with gay friends coming out my asshole - which is somewhat appropriate - don't you think?
My Mother, back in the day, hypothesized that there should be no gay pride day/week/parade until there was a straight pride. I disagree. No one ever got the shit kicked out of them for being heterosexual.
So what's it like? Like being invited to a party bringing all the food and being asked to enter by the back way.
What was this pride like?
It was okay. Just okay. There was a lot of shit flying through the air and some stuck and some didn't. Too vague?
Okay - Friday at the Armouries broke my heart. Dinner before was brilliant - I was allowed to indulge my Dan mojo - for those of you playing along I remain smitten by this boys charm and like oh - psyche sparkle - its pathetic really. I allowed my worlds to collide introducing new friends to old - and amazingly no one died. What broke my heart was that my friend Rick had worked so incredibly hard to put this thing on and the place was deserted. It was very sad.
Sometimes when we promote Pride events we need to branch out people and just promote the fucking event as an event that will be amazing even if you aren't gay. Gheesh.
Saturday was incredibly cool as we were recruited to pick up the evening's host - a gorgeous Drag Queen named Miss Conception. But when we picked him up at the train - he was Kevin.
Kevin and his fiance Daniel were incredibly nice - we clicked right away. We had an amazing day and just enjoyed his company so very much. He put on a fantastic show - I was so impressed!
The highlight of my night was the incredible Carole Pope. I idolize Carole - Rough Trade was insane and she did not disappoint at all in spite of being sick. I had my photo taken with Carole and friends and I am so sick with excitement to see it - she does look about 1000 years old but what the fuck - some day we all will! She totally rocked the house - Diva Bitch she was! And I got her autograph on my copy of Anti Diva! Holy crap.
Oh - not that I forgot - Dan read an incredibly smart poem to the super enhused crowd. I was just purple with pride - not for gay pride but for my FRIEND. How amazingly talented this guy is. Hearing poetry is totally different from reading it people - its the difference between hearing a song sung and reading lyrics on an album liner- it changes everything.
Sunday was Sunday. Too much pride crap and I hit the wall - way too much for one weekend. And, as sad ass as this is - it would had been better if I had been drunk. But I wasn't.
I'm not sure that I want to talk about it here - I know I don't in fact and I won't (if its that important for you to know - email me your questions!) - but it was a weird day for me. I had issues with people place and circumstance. Crap happened. Enough said.
Thank holyshitjesuschrist its over (I stole that from a book I just read - and I intend on continuing to steal it).
So Windsor - home of my future - I enjoyed your Pride - now fuck off and forget about the whole weekend. Okay?

Little Children

I've often felt like I was having a Kate Winslet moment - you know the one - from the amazingly brilliant movie "Little Children" where she is sitting in the park - both pretending to watch her kids, pretending to read and not quite pretending to interract with the other mothers.

That scene is so brilliant because it is so true to life. I always am the Mom on the side, the one that forgot to bring a healthy and nutritous snack containing all of the essential food groups needed for healthy growing children. My kids don't want to wear the right clothes or say the right things - and damnit if I can make them. I figure part of growing kids with healthy self esteem and stong minds is allowing them the tenacity to make their own pig headed decisions. Whether I'm going to like it or not.

While Kate doesn't enjoy these other women - she might want them to like her - although doing anything about it would be against her nature. Their permapress coordinated outfits and soccer Mom hair isn't wrong it just isn't her. I understand this. If I am going to all the trouble to put on lipstick - it won't be to wear it to the park.

In this movie, we are given the horrifying news that her lover doesn't think that she's beautiful - he prefers his skinnier more polished working wife. Where, in reality, isn't Kate Winslet - normal sized girl - just beautiful? Wouldn't any of us give our left arm to be as beautiful as Kate? So, what does that say about how we feel about our own appearance every day? Do we imagine that the permapress soccer moms and their working counterparts are not only more together and on the ball than we are but that they are also better mothers and more beautiful than we are as well?

All of these questions came to me while I was sitting on a park bench yesterday. I was surrounded by gaggles of Moms watching even bigger gaggles of kids.

The Indian Moms all stick together and mutter in a language the rest of us can't understand. I don't want to think this but, I always imagine they are laughing at me or talking about me - the same as I imagine when I go to the nail salon and Amy the Vietnamese nail goddess smiles at me and laughs with the other nail goddesses. The Indian Moms always seem to have extra children more than they would normally be able to fit into the tiny townhouses on our street.

Then there are the baby sitters - who also tend to congregate together. These are the Moms so superior to you and me that they get to look after other people's kids and get paid for it. The have menus and activity plans. They walk every where (because they care for more than the legal number of kids and can't fit them all in a minivan) and are therefore far more fit and capable than I could ever be.

The other suburban Moms have been coming to the park at this time of day on this day for eons. Far longer than I who have only begun as unemployment dictated. And - by the way - I am far too disorganized to go anywhere everyday at a certain time. They are the ones who look pityingly in our direction as I failed to produce even a peice of gum for my kid who was both hungry and thirsty. My "we live 2 minutes from here - lets just go home" even got a little shake of the head from one of them.

But I kept thinking of Kate Winslet. Because in the movie she got the super cute guy (if only for a little while) and in real life she got nominated for an Oscar. Who will be laughing when that happens to me, I ask silently to the super competant Moms? Who will be laughing then?

Six reasons why Facebook is Weird by Sandra

Facebook is weird - and these are the six reasons why I think that. Lets start out by saying, my friends on facebook are people I actually know. Like my cousins. And my old neighbours. And people from highschool. And my actual friends.

1. My husband has a facebook and is friends with my friends. As George would say "worlds collide". Just makes me a little nuts. Especially when I say something to one of my friends and they reply - "oh I know, Wayne told me. we're friends - facebook friends!" Of COURSE it was a lie! Of course - but it was mighty disturbing anyway!

2. My old neighbour's husband facebooked me and added me as a friend - I couldn't see how I could say no. Now I see his updates about going home to "get on the right end of a fatty" and I worry more about what a terrible father he is to his 4 kids then I used to. Then I see his "notes" where he talks about what a terrible father he is and how his whole life is falling apart. And so now I worry about his wife - my friend. Am I allowed to call her and ask if everything is okay? Or is that cheating? Is it spying on people - if they come right out and SAY that they are upset and hurt to cross over from facebook friend to real friend and try to call them and see if you can help???? Where is the line people?

3. I'm friends with my cousin - who on facebook lists her interests as "women". Now we have long suspected she may in fact be a lesbian but do I now know that she is? Am I allowed to acknowledge it as if she has TOLD me that she is? Can I come out and say - I love you no matter what and if you need support - I'm here for you - or is that crossing the line from facebook reality to regular reality? Do I have to pretend not to know until she tells me?

4. I'm friends with my friends in real life on facebook. I don't live in the same city with them. I don't live in their pockets. Yet, I don't have to ask them what they are doing -- because there are events and they have signed up saying they are going.....and status updates tell me their every move. Is she on vacation? Is he in the garden? Is he at work? Is he at home faking sick while eating corn chips and masturbating? I KNOW this info whether I want to or not.

5. My sister in law is a facebook friend. She is still my sister in law as she and my brother are not yet divorced. Its nice - lets me see pictures of the kids and all.....but - then there was the update to her relationship status! "Tracy is in a relationship". Okay - with WHO? Can I ask that? Can I send her an email saying "yay for you!" Where is the line? Or do I do what I did and just pretend to have my hands over my ears and sing lallalalalalalala....

6. Facebook put me in touch with an old boyfriend. My first boyfriend. My first kiss. Pretty weird to reconnect after 25 years. Tonight I got a message from him apologizing for taking advantage of me - in a good way - he said that he was sorry for not appreciating that I wanted to be with him because now he finally sees "what a gift that was"- and sorry for the way things ended. He was happy I found someone better than him.
Now people, that shouldn't REALLY happen. That kind of shit - that full circle tie up loose ends shit - that happend in books. Not in real life. But, thanks to facebook - I have a novel ending to that horrific chapter in my life. Its probably a good thing for my self esteem but frankly it doesn't make it any less WEIRD!

And those are my reasons.

Its all about the story

Its always to me been all about telling a good story. Not matter what, make the life you're living good enough that when you tell the story later, and you will, its a good story.

My favourite good story moment of the last few years happened at gay pride in the early 2000s. I can't remember specificially what year - it seems they have all blended in to one. Before I start the story - apologies to those who appear in the story who may not like their roles or the descriptions there of. Its MY story afterall.

This particular year I attended with a different bunch of folks then I normally do. I therefore expected a varying degree of fun - and before everyone gets their panties in a knot - I was WRONG.

It started with brunch at an all you can eat breakfast buffet. No bad can come from a day fuelled with BACON. Natures most heavenliest of foods. If it were not for bacon I would be a vegetarian today. But I can't give it up - its like a drug! If they could make something that tastes and smells JUST like bacon and was calorie free - they could make it out of old tires, I wouldn't even care - I would LOVE that. Just yum. But already by brunch two of our attendees had already punked out.

One of the cancellers was my cancelling out friend - EVERYONE has at least one cancelling out friend - think about it. The person that says they will be there - can't wait - sounds great! Then the week before the event has a tickle in their throat (this is what we call the pre-complaining stage) and you say "hmmm I understand". And then the day before - ooooh - its questionable if they can attend - malaria, period pains, gastrointestinal distress - etc. Then the day of, you get a call, email or text and unfortunately they can't make it. But, since its the cancelling out friend and you did have a week to prepare and you usually don't count on them anyway, its all good.

The second canceller was one of those people who just is so busy with work that they can't seem to have time to fit in life - and we all expect it - and its all okay. Soooo.... we're down to 4.

Erica - who I worked with, her friend Scott, and my friend Doug. We finished brunch, pushed our way through THRONGS of people and found ourselves a nice place on the parade route. The parade fuelled by Erica's giant bottle of strawberry wine masquerading as pink gatorade was boring as it normally is.

So we escaped to the Alexandra parkette to see what music was happening and hit the beer tent. Who do we find there? Cancelling friend number 2 who was supposed to be working. Whatever. He was suitably uncomfortable which made me happy. I'm often not as happy with revenge as I am with subtle guilt and the ability to be superior - just for a minute.

We left and went to the 501 beer garden - continuing our sad debaucery withoutScott. Somewhere in the afternoon Erica and Doug began discussing their mutual nipple peircings - a conversation I couldn't participate in not having one of my own. Then it started to rain. (It rarely rains on Pride day to eliminate the inevitable singing of "its raining men". )

Erica took off her shirt and so did Doug and the two of them danced shirtless in the rain. I took pictures. Of course I did. I felt it was my duty to record the day. And what I told each of them was - When I tell this story - and I will - you were both NAKED. That's it - dancing naked in the rain.

Monday rolled around and I took in the photos to be developed at my local grocery store - where I always get them developed. I went back end of the week to pick up the naked rain dancing photos and opened them up in the store - I couldn't wait to see what they looked like! I opened the photos and there were the pictures - of a baby shower. Who's baby shower? How the fuck should I know? I rushed back to the photo counter - and panicking asked the little stupid photo boy what had happened to my photos. Long story short - after much hullaballo - turns out that 5 people had their photos mixed up - someone got my naked rain dance photos and I got someone else's babyshower photos.....

The whole thing is - the story of dancing naked in the rain wasn't nearly as good until the photos showing the REAL version ended up with some nice polite suburban family looking for baby pictures with Uncle Fred. That's what MADE the story fun. Good enough fun to be a good story. And its all about the good story - isn't it?

You can't go home again

I went home today - to Stratford and it brought back all kinds of stuff. Stuff. Just stuff.
Back in the day - I left home immediately after high school to move to Toronto - I couldn't wait to get free. So much so that I graduated high school a year early. I can't say just what it was that pushed me out or enticed me away but there was something and it was urgent and important.
When I lived in Toronto I would come home on the train. As the train got closer and closer to Stratford - closer and closer to home - I would get more and more nervous. I would leave my seat and make my way to the train washroom and check my makeup - make sure that everything was just right. Toronto Sandra needed to cover up what needed to be covered up and fluff what needed fluffing. I always freaked out about my clothing and worried that I was dressed right - making sure that I looked my very best.
It wasn't that I was trying to impress anyone in particular - mostly I was just trying to make sure that I had all my chutzpah before I landed at home. I needed to be Toronto Sandra before I got there so I could hold it together. Stratford Sandra held nothing together.
Stratford Sandra was different than Toronto Sandra.
Stratford Sandra remembered the summer between grade 13 and University when I had an interview to work at Kmart. The lady that interviewed me actually told me that she couldn't hire me because I wouldn't fit into the uniform - which at that time was a horrid polyester overblouse with gabardine pants. Because of my gigantic girth I couldn't be a cashier at Kmart. There went my career plans.
Today - as I drove towards Stratford two decades later - I actually put on lipstick while drive 100km/h on the highway. And strangely it brought all that junk flooding back. I had that panic again today - that I'm not good enough - I'm too ugly - too fat - too stupid - MUST get out....must be Toronto Sandra because the uniform doesn't fit Stratford Sandra.
What would have happened if I'd stayed?
As I sat at the Erie Drive In waiting for my battered mushroom lunch I looked at the giant mouth breather amish-looking guy - waiting for his fish burger - and driving away in his big man pick up truck. I bet I could have gotten some guy like that to knock me up. I could have been his dutiful wife popping out babies and keeping a decent (although not likely clean!) home and making my family jams and preserves. We would have gone camping every summer and it would have been just what I wanted.
Or - conversely I could have been a great single mom - living in the city housing out by the old drive-in - watching as my kids ran shoeless across the parking lot towards the broken down playground. I could have whipped up nutrient rich meals with my cunning use of condensed milk, bologna and frozen veggies. I could be the teller with a heart of gold just working my ass off to make a living for my poor fatherless brood, hanging out at Classics on a Saturday night trying to find them another daddy.
Or I could have gone back home - taken that University degree that I never finished and got myself a good job as a paralegal. I could have scrimped and saved and bought myself a nice decent townhouse in the good part of town behind the new fire station. I would have tastefully decorated with a pleasant mixture of innovative paint techniques and figurines. On Saturday nights my old friend and I would sit with popcorn and big glasses of gin and tonic and watch sad girl movies sobbing out our eyes for the loves we never found and the boys that never felt us up.
But none of those things happened. None of those Sandras materialized. Not that I'm saying that Toronto Sandra is any great shake. She has her share of ups and downs and her life certainly never turned out like a plan or a novel that anyone would purposely make. She still makes the effort though to pretend to rise above the rats ass girl she left behind.
Stratford makes me slightly nuts. I'm a mix of emotions the whole time I'm there - full of memories and regrets and insecurities. I like to keep the visits short. Very short.