Extra! Extra! Read all about it!

I am what many might consider a dying breed. I still read a daily newspaper. Not the condensed on-line version. The real hard-copy kind with inky newsprint that rubs off on your fingertips. I have been doing it since I was a kid growing up in St. Catharines. I would rush to the front door for the weekend edition containing the Star Weekly magazine and of course the colour comics. It was like a small gift that arrived every week. As a child, I may not have always understood the politics or business stories, but I tried to read them and if I was bored or uninterested, there was always the word scramble or crossword to entertain. My feeling about the weekend paper hasn't changed much since that time. I am often awakened around 4:00 am by the comforting thud it makes on my front porch as it's tossed by the delivery person (I've actually never seen him/her). For a time during my years as a Journalism student at Ryerson in the early eighties, I subscribed to 3 dailies. It was imperative to know and understand the political leanings of all and to prepare myself with a thorough knowledge of the writers and editors. I was going to be ready to talk intelligently to the folks who might eventually be hiring me, that was for sure. As a poor student, it was a good chunk of my living budget, but I deemed it worthy. I am also a magazine junkie, but that is a whole other blog. So lately, with the talk of the fate of newspapers coming up pretty much daily, I'm starting to worry. Last weekend I went to see The Soloist and references were made in the movie about the dim future of the L.A. Times. On a visit to see my folks yesterday, my own father told me he had cancelled his subscription to the local daily - The St. Catharines Standard. He claims their budget cutbacks have turned the paper into a useless rag with barely any local news coverage. If old school readers like my dad are pulling the plug, newspaper publishers must really be skating on thin ice. I thought it was just a sign of the times with the younger techie generation turning to their computers for all their information, but apparently not. It speaks to the fast-paced lifestyle most people live today. Who has time to sit down and read a newspaper, when you can get lightening speed snippets on TV or the Internet? This, however is the point they are missing. For me, the daily reading of the paper is akin to a meditation session. It forces you to sit down, in a quiet space, hot tea or coffee in hand and physically turn the pages, stopping to pause on whatever headline catches your eye. I know everyone is in a rush, and there are days when I too, barely have time to glance at the headlines on the front page, but I try to find the time for this daily ritual. Especially on the weekend. I only subscribe to one weekend paper now (recession cost-cutting measure) and if I don't have time on Saturday morning, I stretch it out over two days, quite willingly. However, perhaps the most important reason I prefer the paper over the TV news or the Internet, is in the details. It is not unusual for a newspaper story to move me to tears. Over my lifetime, I have had to stop and grab a Kleenex to dry my eyes while reading a powerful in-depth story of a nation's struggle, or a personal human tragedy more times than I care to recall. A fifteen second TV report rarely grabs me in the same way. It's like the movie version of a great book - never quite as good. As much as there are compelling reasons to abandon my affair with this daily ritual - "think of the wasted paper, the clear-cutting of trees", there are plenty of even more compelling reasons to continue. What else would I grab to roll up and kill a spider? What would folks use to lay on the kitchen floor when training that leaky new pup? What would budget-minded students use to wrap their precious mis-matched dishes when moving back home? It makes a good cost-effective alternative to painting drop cloths. Some people even use it with vinegar and water to clean windows.(I've heard) I'm sure there is a very long list of uses. My point being, after you're done reading, it still comes in handy. Aaahh, let's face it, I'm just not ready to give it up. I love newspapers, always have. I just hope there are enough others like me out there with the same sentimental attachment to save them. The reality though - probably not.

Don't Tell My Boss!

Golfing on a Friday? Don't tell my boss. Oh Ya, I am the boss! Back at you tomorrow.

The Devil Makes me Do it!

So after all these years of battling the bulge, I finally got my answer as to what my problem really is in this morning's Globe & Mail. I have a "devilish brain". Apparently my "angel centre" in my brain is doing a lousy job of holding back the "devil region" of my brain, causing me to give in to the temptation to eat rich food. It leaves me with little "self-control". Maybe all I need is an exorcism. What a relief! I always had a sneaky suspicion there was some kind of Beelzebub wandering around in this noggin of mine. It all makes perfect sense to me now. It was never a case of me ordering that pecan pie or fries instead of salad - it was that fire and brimstone spewing Satan up there persuading me to just "go for it". I can hear him right now. "Go ahead Deb, life is short, you could be dead tomorrow, why eat a carrot stick, when you could be scarfing down a piping hot slice of Artisanal Pizza, washed down with a frothy cold imported beer?" And while old Mephistopheles was busy pushing me into the land of gastric orgasms, that good for nothing "good" angel Gabriel was catching a few zzz's at my expense. So it begs the question, how do I wake up that lazy son-of-bitch Gabriel and put him back to work? Well, the article goes on to say that these researchers hope to figure out a way to engage the "good angel" (the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex for those of you needing to know) and put the "devil centre" (the ventromedial prefrontal cortex) in his place. That's right, send him right back to the fires of hell. Pump him full of some sort of coma-inducing venom-like Valium for evil-doers. One pill for him and another for Gabe. I can see it now. The endless ads for "Up Your DLPFC" in tablets or liquid concentrate. See your doctor if you experience any of the following symptoms: The urge to eat nothing but kale all day long. A sudden desire to run miles and miles around your neighbourhood. An overwhelming attraction to Veganism. You find yourself vomiting at the sight of bakeries and beer stores. You can no longer tolerate sugar or salt. French fries make you break out in a rash. Chocolate causes dizziness. You experience sudden or severe weight loss. Wow, with that list of side effects, who would take a drug like that? Gee, come to think of it, maybe I would. Maybe the feds actually need to increase the grant money for those researchers. I really need something to wake up my Gabriel or Michael or whoever it is sawing logs in my prefrontal cortex. I could get used to kale.

Who Will be Smiling on Sunday?

OK, so it's a big golf weekend coming up for the PGA Tour - The Players Championship at TPC Sawgrass (thought I'd throw that in for my non-golfing readers). Yesterday, I entered a pool to win a prize package from Callaway from the folks at Privileged Play. The idea was to choose the top four finishers. The results are based on the lowest points. For example, if you chose Woody Austin to win and he came in 7th, you would get 7 points. As I was a bit hurried yesterday, yet did not want to miss the midnight deadline to participate, I very quickly scanned the entrant's list and picked my four. My very scientific criteria was as follows: Number One: Anthony Kim Criteria: I like how he is always smiling, his sparkly belt buckles and I figure he's overdue for a win. Number Two: Ian Poulter Criteria: It's just so damn much fun seeing what he wears everyday and he reminds me of a sporty Rod Stewart. Number Three: Phil Mickelson Criteria: I just love it when he wins and those sweet cherubic little girls of his fling their arms around his neck and hug him. Chokes me up every time! (and he's due). Number Four: Vijay Singh Criteria: I enjoy his laid back style. He never pouts or over-reacts and I could watch his swing all day long. I also admire his practice philosophy. I've just always liked him. You may have noticed I did not include the almighty Tiger Woods in my list of four. Is it just me, or is everyone just plain sick and tired of watching a grown man pout like a petulant child? Ya, OK, so he is America's hero of golf. He does things that other men can only dream of on the golf course. He has a gorgeous wife and beautiful babies. He will likely go down in history as the most celebrated, richest golfer of all time - so what's he got to be so damn pouty about all the time? Loosen the bone Wilma. Have some fun out there. Lighten up bud. Nobody likes a cry baby. Especially one with nothing to cry over. From an odds perspective, I totally should have put him on my list, so I did the next best thing, I put him on my husband's entry. That way, one of us stands a chance!

What's on Your Bucket List?

It may be another typical characteristic of the boomer generation, always wanting more out of life than generations past, but in recent years there has been an increasing emphasis on "bucket lists" and "places to see before you die". The recent coverage on CTV's Canada AM of "The Best Job in the World", a competition created by Tourism Queensland in Australia in an effort to draw attention to The Great Barrier Reef got me to thinking about my own "bucket list". For those of you unfamiliar with the competition down-under - here is a description from their website: The Caretaker of the Islands of the Great Barrier Reef is a newly created position. There are a few minor tasks that need to be taken care of, but the most important duty is to report back to Tourism Queensland (and the world) and let us know what’s taking place on the Islands of the Great Barrier Reef. Wow! It does seem ideal. The competition has been whittled down to 16 and tomorrow the winner will be chosen. I must have missed the memo on this job posting, because I may have applied. It has however, served as a reminder to me that snorkeling on the Great Barrier Reef is on my list of one of the things I still want to do before I die. My whole family (all 3 of us) love to snorkel. We never take a Caribbean holiday without bringing our masks and snorkels (don't like using rented equipment ), and it is our number one beach activity by far. I don't think there is anything as peaceful and awe-inspiring as swimming with the fish and sea creatures in the crystal waters of a coral reef. On our last trip to San Salvador, a tiny island in The Bahamas, Emma and I went out on the boat to a different reef everyday, sometimes twice a day. We swam with a nurse shark, barracudas and countless other brilliant tropical fish in the most spectacular under water world we had ever seen up until then. It was the best snorkeling we had ever experienced. That's why I know, I absolutely must snorkel The G.B.R. before the end of my time here on earth. If it is the best in the world, I can hardly imagine how incredible it must be. I am embarrassed to admit, that I never did it the first time I was in Australia. A mistake I won't repeat again. Another item on my list is golfing at St. Andrews. That's the dream of many golfers I'm sure. I once golfed with a women who had been there the summer before and she was sporting a St. Andrews golf shirt - her shirt and her stories - that's as close as I've come so far. It just won't do. Thirdly, as a result of another mistake from my past, I want to go to Italy. I want to experience Tuscany, ride in a gondola in Venice, wander the streets of Florence, shop in Rome, throw some coins in the Trevi Fountain, and see all the other sites I've read about and dreamed about all my life. On my first European adventure, I saw 12 countries, but not Italy. It seems crazy to me now, but at the time, I had just spent a month in Greece and after 30 days of fending off the aggressive men of the Mediterranean, we just weren't up to more of the same in Italy, which we were told was even worse. (remember - I was 19 then). Now, I'm quite certain that would be the least of my worries. The good news is, I'm pretty sure, this list is still doable. And even better news, I have already done quite a few things on my list. The thing is, I never used to worry about running out of time, but when you're over the middle hump and on the down slope, the invincibility and seeming endlessness of youth is but a memory and there's no time to waste. (well, less of it anyway) I gotta go now - I need to call my travel agent.

Winner of the O.A.I. golf rating system goes to......

It's official. Yesterday, my husband and I golfed with the winner of the the world's highest D.B.I. If you want to learn the meaning of D.B.I., you will have to visit another blog. It was a term created by the guys at www.niceballz.com. Because I have difficulty with the term (as a woman) I have changed it up a bit for my own use. I use the O.A.I. as a rating system for golf partners. Translation: Obnoxious Asshole Index. Doug and I were paired up with a father and son for the day. When booking a twosome in golf, there is always some risk factor. For the most part, we usually end up playing with some great people. But not always. Rick, the son, (or should I say Dick?) will no doubt top the charts this season on the O.A.I. rating scale. It is rare indeed that I actually was looking forward to the end of the round just to escape this guy. I could easily write 3 blogs about the myriad of asinine moves this guy made, but I will just give you the highlights as I am on the run this morning. Not once, but twice he played my husband's ball. How could this happen you may ask? Well, Doug is a long driver, and we would have to wait for Rick (Dick) to hit 3 or 4 shots before we ever got to Doug's first drive. This allowed Rick to think he was finding his own 4th shot and before we could stop him - he'd be shanking it yet again. It's a good thing my husband is a fairly calm, cool, collected guy. I know some golfers that would never forgive such behaviour. Especially when there is some money on the line (certainly not the case yesterday). He had zero social skills. He yapped continuously all day long - either to himself, to us, or into his CELL PHONE. Not one word of his yapping was interesting, humorous or for that matter intelligent. We even heard a couple of racist mutterings about how the immigrants in Canada should all head back to their own countries. Need I say more? He was forever hovering around in our sight-lines as we were about to hit the ball. Once, he even got out of the cart at a hole and went and hovered behind the guys in the tee box ahead of us. I was hoping they would tell him to get the f__k out of their space, but unfortunately, they were too polite and just looked at him as if he were some sort of tragic homeless guy. On several occasions he never made it past the red tee box on his tee shots and instead of waiting until everyone had teed off, he would wander around in front of us looking for his ball. Oh- the temptation to knock one into his head - not sure how I held back, but I did. And those, ladies and gentlemen, are just a few of the precious moments from yesterday's round of 18. I will only talk about the O.A.I. again this season, if someone can top Dick, I mean Rick. If there is a god in heaven, I won't have to.

If it's Sunday, that only means one thing.....

Be back tommorow, unless I run off with the tour! What are the chances? Then again, these new irons are really working for me.......

This time - The Whitney!

It's a sleepy Saturday morning in the neighbourhood. Unusually quiet actually. Not sure why. I stumbled, sleepy-eyed to the front door to pick up the paper from the front porch, did a quick scan of the yard. Nothing amiss. The magnolia has shed most of its pink and white petals, creating a messy carpet beneath it. But, just as nature intended (or rather how I planned it), the Service berry is just starting to open it's delicate white blossoms. A pretty distraction from the now sad looking mag. I took a quick look at the morning paper, first the section headlines, then a more detailed look at the front section. Nothing earth-shattering. Big whoop - the confirmed flu cases in Canada have risen to 55. Not going to worry about that yet. More interesting to me actually was yet another full-page ad from one of Toronto's higher-end furniture retailers, DeBoer's offering 40% off. Last week it was Elte offering 50% off. The week before that it was Barrymore at 60%. These 10% increments are either encouraging news about the economy, or perhaps the reality of the situation hasn't quite sunk in with the guys that run DeBoer's. Time will tell. In the meantime, I check my lottery ticket. If I won, this might be a good time to go shopping. No such luck. There was a time when discounts of this size and nature, would see me running out the door, eager to cash in on a deal. Now, I'm not so excited. It's really quite an incredible about-face for me. (now if it were a half-price sale on golf stuff....maybe). The truth is, I really don't need anything. And my wants are weakening just like the economy. We're funny that way, we humans. We adapt. Not necessarily willingly, but eventually we do come around. What other choice do we have? I must admit though, since I have stopped what I refer to as "sport-shopping", I don't really miss it. I still get an occasional craving, like a smoker or drinker in recovery, but it passes pretty quickly. Now I only go shopping for necessities or for clients. Short of reciting "My name is Debra and I am a shopaholic", every week, I would go so far as to say I am cured. Further proof - I am going to NYC this August to celebrate my dearest friend, Peggy's 50th birthday. In the past, that would have meant a major shopping spree on Fifth Avenue. This trip will be different. The focus will be less on acquiring things and more on soaking up the culture of the city. Maybe this new approach is a direct result of tightening pocketbooks, but the shift in the approach is actually a good thing. The last time I went to New York (for my own 50th), shopping was a top priority, with museums and Broadway shows following behind in second and third place on the list. So, the way I see it, this "reversal of fortune", once considered disastrous, will really benefit me and my brain in the long run. So there you go - I didn't need to have the winning lottery numbers this morning, I'm actually more of a winner without them. (did I really just say that?) Yup, I really did.

38D is the new 34B

Call me crazy. Call me prudish, (although you'd be wrong about that). Call me an old broad whose own has seen better days, but I think there is a time and a place for exposed cleavage. I live down the street from the local high school. I walk by that school nearly everyday and I never get used to the amount of exposed skin I see on the girls that go there. I don't want to launch into a big rant about "back in my day", however, the plain truth is, the boys in the class of 1975 would still be trying to graduate if they had sat through class day after day feasting their eyes on the girls in the class of 2012. Not only do these young women dress like they are headed to the beach, they seem to barely fit into their bikini tops! In the class of 1975, if I had to hazard a guess, I would say the average bra size was in the vicinity of a 34B. Not today. That would be considered flat-chested. The gals today are easily sporting good solid sets of 38D or higher and that bodacious bodice is most often accompanied by long legs and a boyish hip of around 32 inches or less. As Carrie Fisher's character in When Harry Met Sally said, "Big tits, small ass, your basic nightmare.", when describing Harry's new squeeze to Sally. It has been speculated (actually proven by now for all I know) that the hormones present in dairy products today are responsible for all this "over" growth. (Geez, if we'd known back in the day, we'd have said "Bring it on.") What ever the scientific reason for this voluptuous new generation of mammaries, it is still incredulous to me that today's young women think it is perfectly OK to flaunt what they've got.....at school. As early as grade 7. Yes, that's right. Grade 7. The summer after grade six when my very modest daughter returned to school in September, there were several of her classmates eager to show the world what had sprouted over the summer. (That was Catholic school and I have the class photo to prove it.) What ever happened to creating an air of mystery? Between exposed thongs and push-up bras, what's left to the imagination? Maybe that's why the boys started wearing over-sized baggy pants, crotch hanging to the knees - a tent to hide their constant state of arousal. Why else? I mean, REALLY, why else? They may want to call it fashion. I call it what it is. Slutty. Cheap. Desperate for attention. You pick. I am all for a woman feeling and looking like a woman. Notice, I said woman. Not girl. These girls don't understand what it really means to be in touch with their femininity yet. They have put the cart before the horse. Apparently, this is also true in their approach to sex. Oral sex, once considered the ultimate intimate act with a partner, is now as ordinary as a goodnight kiss. How did we evolve to this place? Perhaps evolve is the wrong word. It seems more like a step backward to me. I find it sad. In an effort to create a balanced rant about all this flesh feasting, there are plenty of more mature women who should add a little extra fabric once in a while too. Nobody is interested in looking at your hoisted hooters crammed into a bra 3 times too small. Are you reading this, Paula Abdul? Have some dignity ladies. If you haven't been able to pass the pencil test for a decade, don't go there. All the lycra in the world won't make you look 29 again. If you can't pull off sexy after 40 without resorting to publicly pressing your pushed and plumped up pair in his eyes, well, you likely never were. As I said in the beginning of this titillating tome, there is a time and place for a partially revealed rack. Black tie affairs.(tastefully though ladies) The beach. Poolside. A romantic candlelight dinner a deux. The bedroom. The privacy of your own home. You get the picture. But in broad daylight in the middle of Math class? I think not.

Pass me a Kleenex and a slice of Bacon

Getting a little annoyed with this whole swine flu over-reaction. It's the flu. Call it Swine, or bird or whatever other animal name you want to give it, it's still just the flu. Old folks and babies and people with suppressed immune systems die all the time, every day, in every country from the common flu. Just because this one has a weird name, doesn't make it any more or less contagious than the regular run-of-the-mill variety. Calling it a pandemic is just plain irresponsible in my opinion. As a journalist, I am ashamed at how the press just latches on to this kind of thing and blows it way out of proportion. The medical community is just as bad. They're all just trying to cover their own asses in case something catastrophic does happen. I think they are as guilty as the press this time. We are talking about a very small number of cases here people. And don't get me started on the ridiculous notion that is spreading worse than a pandemic. The misinformed going around saying you can catch it from eating pork. The pig farmers are in a panic, and rightly so. They could face some very harsh economic fall-out from this if the rest of the world markets stop buying pork from North America. You cannot catch the "Swine" flu from eating a ham sandwich! Case in point - yesterday, I received a TwitterPic of a toddler kissing the snout of a large hog with the caption "how not to avoid the swine flu". It may have been a joke, but it was completely misleading. My daughter has had a cold all week. I felt guilty sending her to school with plenty of Kleenex. I'm sure every time she coughs or sneezes, the world at large feels threatened with death. She has not had a fever, chills or vomiting. She has a case of the common cold. I think everyone just needs to relax a bit here. We do not live in medieval times. We have access to health care and most of us have immune systems strong enough to survive it if we do get it. If you don't have a healthy immune system, well guess what?, something was going to get you eventually anyway. That's just the circle of life. Harsh reality? No, just reality. So wear a mask if you must, postpone your trip to Mexico, stop eating bacon - if it makes you feel safer. Just stop calling a few cases of the flu a pandemic. Because it's not.

I love her, I love her not

If it's the end of April, that means my love/hate relationship with my garden is starting to turn closer to the hate side. It's my own fault. I have what is considered by some as a fairly "ambitious" garden. My love of a beautiful garden drove me 12 years ago when we bought this house to create a vision that in reality would require the assistance of at least one other full-time body to maintain. Oh to live near the Mexican border! My friend Peggy lives in Austin, Texas and almost everyone in her neighbourhood has a helper from Mexico. And they work for a pittance. (I'm not saying this is right or wrong - just stating the facts ma'am.) Hiring help here in Toronto is more than a pittance, so I toil alone. My husband pitches in quite a bit, but even that is not enough. Yesterday, I spent the day spreading top soil and grass seed all over the weaker parts of the lawn, after raking debris spread about by the previous day's high winds. It was the third time I have raked the damn thing in the last two weeks. (it's been windy, and we have a lot of very old tall trees). After the raking, spreading and seeding was in place, I made a futile attempt to turn on the sprinkler system. I watch the experts I hire do it every spring, I figured I now knew how to do it myself. Why pay for nothing? Well, it turns out I must have missed a secret step they take or something, because it would not start up. By then, it was 8:00 pm and I was dirty and tired and getting grumpier by the minute because the manual for the system was no where to be found (I'll have to look again this morning). As anyone who knows anything about planting grass seed will tell you, the secret to germination is to keep it moist. Dry seed will not sprout. I have to get it wetted down today, or all my effort will have been in vain. I have been working in my garden for about a month already this season. I've heard there are actually folks who don't lift a trowel until the long weekend in May. Amateurs! These are the people who plant a few petunias or impatiens in an afternoon and then sit back for the rest of the summer and relax. I cannot relate. If I plant annuals at all, it only to fill in a spot or fill an urn or pot. Perennials, as faithful and wonderful as they are, do require some TLC if you want them to perform every year. (there is the odd exception) By this, I mean, cutting back the dead portion from the year before, division every few years, fertilizing, dead-heading and potential move to another more favourable location in the garden. There is no such thing as a low-maintenance garden. Some work is always required. I mention this, because clients and friends are always winging that phrase at me. "I'd like a nice low-maintenance garden - can you help me with that?" they ask. Sure, we'll just pave your entire front lawn - and back, and even then, you will have to pull weeds from the cracks in the concrete, rake the leaves that blow over from your neighbour's trees, and if you dare to have a pot or urn at the front door (for some colour!), you will have to water it everyday, twice on the really hot days. Anything more than that, and you can expect to spend at least an hour a day to keep it perfect. (and that's for a small modest plot) An therein lies the rub. Perfection. If you are willing to allow your garden to have a mind of it's own, spread it's seeds and wind it's roots willy nilly with nary a correction by your hand, you would then possibly be able to say, "I have a nice low-maintenance garden." However, despite your vision of a "Monet-type" canvas, what you would get would be more like a "Jackson Pollock canvas". All wild and crazed, a garden needing to be committed, rather than admired. In a "Jackson Pollock" garden, weeds would eventually choke out the flowers and they would spread to your lawn and before you know it, you'd be calling the cement crew in to dump a load all over it because it's the only way you'd be able to kill it. I know this to be true, because I have allowed certain sections of my own garden to have their way with Mother Nature from time to time and the result is always disappointing. I like the look of an English garden versus the tidier formal garden, but don't let anyone tell you an English garden is simpler. They'd be lying. It is also impossible to create an English garden in any time frame less than 5 years. Penelope Hobhouse, the famous English gardener, would tell you 10 years. She is actually correct. After 5 years, you would have a decent looking garden, but not quite the "House & Garden" result you were going for. I know I said earlier that I was in the hate phase of my love/hate garden relationship, and although that is true today, tomorrow I could flip back to love, as I so often do. After I finish writing this blog, I will step out my back door and head to the farthest corner of our lot and stand in my "woodland" garden, at it's most spectacular right now, and look at my precious trilliums, bloodroot and trout lilies and once again realize why I put in the work. I don't need to go to a museum to look at a painting. I have the real thing right here in my own little plot of paradise. Right after I find that damn manual.

My Inner Rock Star

There. That's better. I sat down over an hour ago to write today and the reflection in the mirror behind my computer screen was just too much to take. I was still sporting yesterday's hat head from working in the garden all day and it was pretty scary to say the least. It was so distracting, I had to go have a shower and do something about my hair. One of the advantages to working at home is some days there really is no incentive to put myself together. I can stay in my pajamas and write and take calls and work on floor plans - whatever. But sometimes, like today - even I couldn't stand the sight of myself. So now I feel and look better and hopefully can now write. Or can I? I sense a wee case of writer's block today. Hold on. Loading i tunes library. Music might help. Random scroll. Nickelback. Rock Star. I love that song. My daughter and I like to crank it up in the car and sing at the top of our lungs. I especially like the line "and we'll all stay skinny, cause we just won't eat". Imagine that. I can't. Maybe if I was a rock star. But I doubt it. I'd more likely be like Jann Arden or the latest chubette on the scene - Adele. "She'd be so perfect if she just lost a few pounds," the critics would say. Random scroll again. Do You Believe in Magic? The Lovin Spoonful. Perfect. One of my all time faves. Cranking it now. Dancing in my swivel chair. I love it when this song pops up in a movie soundtrack. One criticism though - it's too short. Victim of the sixties. Next. Scrolling. Katy Perry. I Kissed a Girl. I like the idea of the taste of the cherry chapstick. Not so sure about the kissing a girl part. I am dancing in my swivel chair again though. Should I be reading something into that? Nah. I like boy's lips. I predict this is a total one hit wonder. Does get your attention though, doesn't it? Stop....now! Let's Get it Started. Black Eyed Peas. If ever a song was going to pick me up today - this could be it. Off my chair now. Channelling my inner hip hop self. I totally would have been into hip hop when I was younger - it has the same dancey thing going on as disco, and I admit, I loved a lot of that. Remember the 747 Club in Buffalo? The Bakery in Niagara Falls, N.Y.? Gord's Place on Tuesday nights in St. Catharines? I was there - circa 1976. Slowing it down now. (slightly) Alicia Keys. No One. If I were a rock star, I would be her. She's talented, smart, beautiful, she sings and plays the piano,has a good solid set of hips on her, and she never does anything to bug anyone. (not yet anyway) . Back in my chair, eyes closed, singing along, doing the Stevie Wonder rocking on the piano move. These are the things we do when we're alone. I am totally feeling better now. Last Call. Alicia deserves another turn. If I ain't Got You. I'm really wailing now. Swivel chair is making slow turns. Water bottle has become microphone. "Some people want diamond rings, some just want everything, but everything means nothing, if I ain't got you baby." Trying to hit those high notes now. Good thing you can't hear me. Guess I'll be keeping my day job. Don't tell my husband I sang that stuff about not wanting the diamond rings.

Put a Cork in it Junior!

It's 1:00 am. It's obvious I am not getting any sleep tonight. My daughter has a cold and hasn't stopped coughing since she got into bed a 10:00 pm. My husband is snoring and a police siren just killed any hope I had of falling back to sleep. What the hell - I got in an hour of shut-eye. I feel a rant coming on. A few hours before all of this started, Emma and I decided to take in a movie. (before all the coughing began) She wanted to see I Love you Man, but when we got to the theater, there was some sort of technical glitch preventing them from running the film. OK, let's implement Plan B. We both agreed upon the movie Earth. There has been a fair amount of hype surrounding this Disney flick, and I do enjoy a well-done nature program, so we got our tickets and popcorn and settled in to watch. This being a new release, there was barely a seat left in the house by the time the movie started. We were nice and early and got primo seats right near the top and in the centre. I noticed there were quite a few very young children in the audience and had a vague uneasy feeling, but dismissed my intuition. Never a good idea. Just as the movie started, so did Yappy and Yappier right behind us. In a very stern motherly fashion, I turned around after about 5 minutes of the annoying chatter and shushed them. When I turned to do this, I did not see any adults near them, but I hadn't looked that carefully and it was dark. (why weren't their parents telling them to be quiet?) My shushing lasted all of 3 minutes before the 7 year old brat channeling his own mini James Earl Jones started to narrate for us and the rest of the movie going public around him. Again, I shushed. Now I was getting really annoyed. The shushing lasted about 2 minutes this time. It then occurred to me that this movie Earth was seemingly identical to the BBC Video version of the Planet Earth series that I had bought for my husband for Christmas. (obviously some well-intentioned Santa had given it to this kid too - as he felt compelled to keep telling everyone he had the DVD). Had Disney just bought the footage and thrown it on the big screen replacing David Attenborough's voice with James Earl Jone's baritone narration? Now I was feeling not only annoyed by Yacky Doodle behind me, but also somewhat ripped off. I mean, isn't the point of seeing a film in theatres a bit moot when it's already out on video? It was becoming apparent that Sponge Bob Talky Pants was never going to give us a moment's peace. By now, everyone around us, kept looking to me to discipline this little spawn of Satan. C'mon people, where's your "it takes a village spirit"? Why did I have to do all the dirty work? And again, where the hell were these kid's parents? If they were around, they never uttered a sound. Guess they had either dumped the little rug rats while they went to see another flick, or they just did not want to admit to owning the monsters. By now, Emma was asking if we could leave. We were half an hour in by now and some crazy part of me still held out hope that these ill-bred children would shut-up, run out of steam, choke on their popcorn - something like that. I would give them one more good shushing - that oughta do it. Well, respect for adult authority just wasn't a part of their vocabulary. The incessant banter continued and I knew I would have to leave before I grabbed the yackier of the two and hauled him out by his ear to the manager's office. As I have no real interest in being arrested for child abuse, I took the high road and took myself to the manager's office and asked for a refund. Besides, as it turns out, I can watch the damn movie in the comfort of my own home without the pip-squeak voice-over. And that, is yet another reason I love golf.

My Endless Summer Love

It's official. I'm in love.....with golf. Love sounds better than obsessed, so I'll go with that. It's hard when you're in love with a sport that cannot be played year round (at least where I come from). I do have the good fortune to make trips to see my love in sunnier, warmer climes during the off season, but these visits are fleeting at best. You no sooner get back in the groove and it's time to say goodbye again. Don't get me wrong. These little off season trysts are like life lines in the darkest, coldest days of a Canadian winter, but they just tease me and leave me wanting. For those of you who have been following my affair, you know golf and I were together over the March break in Myrtle Beach and it was wonderful. That was weeks ago. So yesterday, when we reunited here at home, well, it was just awesome. The weather even cooperated and gave us a completely out of the ordinary summer day in April. We were hot! And I mean that in whatever way your mind wants to interpret it. There were two moments of pure bliss that stand out. An island green that I have never landed on in the past two attempts, accepted my perfectly executed five iron. I held my follow through until the moment the ball landed and rolled nicely to about 10 feet from the pin. I tried hard not to overdo the Tiger fist pump (two others in our foursome weren't so fortunate), but I did give myself the liberty of a quiet little "yes!" and mini version of the gesture. I couldn't help myself. I didn't even care that I missed my "birdie opportunity", and settled for par. Getting the ball there in one was victory enough. The second moment was more of a "horse shoe up her ass" sort of thing, but how we get there doesn't always matter, does it? Faced with a large water hazard in front of an uphill green, I completely blew the shot, hit it fat and watched as it headed straight for the pond. Just as I figured my ball was fish food, I stood in amazement as my ball skipped, once, twice, three and then four times across the water and up onto the green. And if that wasn't enough of a miracle, the ball then proceeded to curl around and stop about 6 feet from the cup. My husband just stood there shaking his head. It was the kind of shot, that had it been on film, would be replayed endlessly on TSN, kind of like the Woody Austin fall in the pond footage we still see over and over again. Blissful moments aside, we also played with another couple that we actually enjoyed. You never know who or what you'll have to put up with when you book a twosome, so that also made for a good day. So now, golf and I have the next five to six months together before we have to part again. I plan on living each day, one day at a time with my beloved addiction so I don't have to think about our inevitable separation in November. I've got new irons in the bag and a sparkly new ball marker to get the season started. Hope he likes them.

Pretty Self-Explanatory.....

It's Saturday! No time to blog today - I'll be back tomorrow. Depending on how today's game goes, I may have a story to tell....or not. Later!

Tea Time with George

Where do my blog ideas come from? Well, in case you were wondering, most days I have no idea at all what I'm going to write until I sit down in front of the blank screen and let my mind wander. Some days it's harder than others. Like today. Nothing earth-shattering in the world news (in my opinion), just another day in Toronto, even though I follow David Miller on Twitter to see what he's up to (that's our mayor, for my international readers!). So I sort of just let words free flow through my head (not as dippy as it sounds) and if the word leads to a story, I follow it. Something like than anyway. This morning's word was "April". That lead me to "April in Paris". Which lead me to the voice of George Whitman standing behind me at 37 Rue Bucherie in Paris in September of 1977 saying, "The only thing more enchanting than April in Paris is the laughter of a young girl." I was standing with my travel companion browsing through used paperbacks in front of Shakespeare and Company, the famous Left Bank bookstore. I don't recall what we were giggling about, but George heard us and came out to talk to us. After a few minutes of chit-chat, he invited us up to his apartment above the shop for tea. (who was this crazy old guy and why were we following him?) For the next couple of hours, we were bedazzled by George Whitman, the shop's owner and supposed illegitimate great grandson of poet, Walt Whitman. We sat facing him on a dusty old settee. There was something edible served with tea (perhaps his famous pancakes), but I don't remember that as much as I do him. He was bigger than life for such a small compact man. He was not quite curmudgeonly, his hair wispy and a bit wild looking. He was however, an exceptional story teller. He invited us to stay as long as we liked in his shop for free. The only thing he required in return was that we read a book every day and help out in the shop for a couple of hours.(thousands have been made the same offer) Now, as a couple of backpackers on a tight budget (remember "Europe on $5 a Day"? - essentially impossible in Paris, even back then), his offer sounded too good to be true. On closer inspection, we noticed several young struggling writers milling about the shop, sleeping bags and packs tucked into corners and space amongst the towering stacks of books at an extreme premium. Although the romantic notion of actually being a "struggling writer" held some appeal, the reality of showering at a public bath house across the street - not so much. That, in addition to feeling somewhat intimidated by "real" struggling writers pretty much ruled out accepting his invitation. At the time, we had no idea that Shakespeare and Company was somewhat of a legend in Paris. Remember, we were 19 and flying through Europe by the seat of our pants - no university education, small town girls with little more than open minds and a taste for adventure. We may have heard of Walt Whitman, but I can tell you with certainty, we had never read any of his poems. Our magical afternoon with George Whitman was one of many "peak" experiences of our European odyssey. There are countless books and websites devoted to the history and present day news of George and his shop. He is still alive, in his early nineties now. His daughter Sylvia (conceived after we met him - that old scamp!) now runs Shakespeare and Company. I only learned later it was a hang-out for the beat generation writers, the likes of Alan Ginsberg and William Burroughs. The original shop opened in 1919 and was frequented by Ernest Hemingway, Ezra Pound, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein and James Joyce. Hemingway mentions the shop several times in A Movable Feast. Now, there are even countless Facebook groups devoted to George and his famous book store. I was glad to join a couple of these groups recently. Who knew at the time, I would be a teeny tiny part of something so special? I have George Whitman tucked away in my little box of precious memories. And for that, I'm grateful.