MONTREAL MON AMOUR

There comes a time in every parent's life when they look at their wonderful children, thank god (or whoever) for blessing them with such wonderful treasures, and wonder how to get the hell outta Dodge.

At least that's what happens in our house. Regularly. Sure, my man and I love our babes to bits. But we also love each other, which is why we skipped town, hit the 401 and headed to Montreal.

Montreal, je t'aime. Stunning, accessible, and a helluva lot cheaper than Toronto, what's not to love? Everyone's got their fave places and spaces. And here are mine:

HOTEL: Montreal is home to Canada's largest selection of boutique hotels. Or so it seems. We stayed at Hotel Gault, an award-winning, newish hotel in the self-described "Old Montreal's bustling west end" neck of the woods. First off, it wasn't bustling. But that's OK. Because it was only on the cusp of Vieux Montreal, you felt closer to the city itself And we liked that. Then again, the whole town feels a lot more compact than Toronto. And we liked that too. Anyhoo, Hotel Gault is gorgeous. Loft-like. Exposed stone walls. Concrete floors (heated in the bathroom). Tres moderne. Tres cool. And with a special $99-for-the-second-night deal, tres resonable. Especially when you consider they also include breakfast. Not a loser continental one either. Full menu, full buffet, or full combo. Full being the operative word. Dee-lish. They threw in a dinner too, but who wants to hang in their hotel the whole time?

Actually, don't answer that.

FOOD: Sit back, 'cuz this could take a while....The weekend may have been a 5 pounder. But I'll never tell. What I will tell you, tho', is that we ate like piggies. Or kings. Whatever.

Our friend insisted we try his home-away-from-home bistro, Lemeac. We did. Superb. And it has a cheapy menu for the hotshots who come in after 10PM. Like my Man and me. Check us out: we get to Montreal and, suddenly, we're all French and chic and late-night diners. But back to the food. We went prix fixe. There were a couple of translation issues, but it didn't matter because the waitress was lovely and it was just good grub. Especially the enormouus pain perdu dessert. Basically a massive hunk of carmelized french toast. Was better than it sounds. Much much better. Lemeac also had an extensive, if somewhat intimidating, wine list. Or so it seemed to non-vintner types.

There's a hot vegetarian resto on St Denis that also does a brusque take-out and casual lunch business. The mini version is called Chuch. Can't remember the name of the papa place. Anyhoo, it's cute to look at and has damn fine Thai foood - so good in fact, you wouldn't even know it was veggie! (No offense.) Actually, you might know. But if you get the deep fried seaweed and spinach you won't care.

Marathon Mike Schwartz. OK, that's not really a restaurant. But all good all the same. We went to Marathon Souvlaki to relive a childhood dream. Not mine. And was it worth the drive to Laval? Absolutely. Or so my Man says. I'm not a major souvlaki person, but I know a good tzaziki when I find one. And this was good. Very very good. (maybe not as good as Arahova's, but this was somebody else's memory lane, OK?) Mike's Submarines - ditto. Not my thing, but apparently tasty enough to make someone very very happy.

Schwartz's. Oooooh Schwartz's. Does deli get any better than this? I don't think so. Spectacular. Even cold and in the car. I'm telling you now, Montreal friends, I'll be putting in take out orders when next you go home.

But people, I've saved the best, le meilleur, for last. Le Club Chasse et Peche. Apparently the hottest spot in town. According to our concierge, it's worth moving to Montreal for. Well, we aren't moving (yet) but if we did.... Unreal. Spectacular food, simple yet terrific menu, and sexy as hell. It's the kind of place when someone says you have to go, you have to listen. So if you are planning a trip to Montreal, remember, You Have To Go. We had fois gras and beet salad and Tasmanian Char and Sweetbreads. No, not all together, morons. All fab. Even the veggies on the side were incredible. For dessert they had some kind of postmodern rice crispy square but, sadly, we never got to try it. We went for something else - some apple, caramel, pastry concoction. Who knows, it might've been awesome - but I was too full at this point to judge.

SHOPS: Aaaah shops... For many folks, Montreal equals shopping. For us, these are the handful that stood out:

Zone - pour la maison. Awesome homewares and gifty stuff. They have a few of these scattered round town (plus one in Ottawa). In fact, you could spit and hit a great home furnishing place. We've decided when (if) we move house, we'll be taking a truck to Montreal and loading it up. They've got a great thing going on in the design department and, best of all, it's kind of on the cheap side!

Factorie - for ladies and gents. Divide and conquer. And if you can get the oh-so-chic and helpful owner to help you, do. He knows gorgeous.

Lola et Emily - great ladies wear. Like a combo of my two beloved NYC stores, Anthropologie and Olive & Bette's. If I need to say more, then just skip it. It's pas pour vous.

Mortimer Snodgrass - kitschy and fun. Gifts for suckers of all ages.

And, and, and....The list could go on and on and on. But we only had two days and we were driving, so this is it. For now.

Sure, the days of long haul, far flung, exotic vacays may be on hold, but we'll always have Montreal...

THE GIFT THAT KEEPS ON GIVING

It's Christmas time, there's no need to be afraid...

Unless you're hitting the stores this weekend, 'cuz 'tis the season to go shopping...

SHOPPING?!

Yeah yeah yeah, I've heard it all - peace on earth, spirit of giving, time for family, blah blah blah. Spiritual holiday my ass - it's all about the shops.

And hey - what's wrong with that?

I actually don't do Christmas. Nope, it's That Other Holiday for me. Eight days of candles, soirees, latkes and, of course, presents. Sure eight days is better than one, but I have Christmas envy all the same. Love the lights/tree/tinsel combo. I can skip a wreath, but a stocking full of treats? Sign me up!

But alas, 'tis not to be. It's Chanukah or bust chez nous, where the spirit of gifting is out in full force. Nephews, neices, kids and Others: those are the folks on my shopping list. Chanukah's all about kids and the Others involved with them: teachers, nannies, etc. No husband-wife swapping... Oops! I mean husband-wife GIFT swapping. Not for a lack of trying on my part, but after several years of fighting it, I've succumbed, and now Chanukah is just about the kids. OK. Having kids helped.

The big question is, of course, what to buy. And that's why god created gift crads. I mean really, is there anything better than a gift card? Sure I like to unwrap the big boxes as much as the next gal...Hell, I don't even mind wrapping them. My mother had a wrapping cupboard - not a Candy Spelling full on room, but a cupboard. And it was awesome. Name your colour, your style, your ribbon - she had it all. I tried to recreate my own giftwrapping cupboard, but it's turned into a regift space, the only wrapping is old gift bags and stolen tissue paper, ready to be reused.

But back to the gift cards. They're not for everyone. A young child is still innocent enough to appreciate a toy. And toys for the little ones are still cheap enough to buy. Besides, who doesn't love roaming the aisles of the toy stores? Sure it's a pain in the ass in theory, but in practise? Suddenly, everybody's young and happy and keen and excited. Cutting edge, retro classic, electronic wish listers - toys are fun. And of course they are - they're toys!!! So for little folks, buying and wrapping is the way to go.

And they they turn 10. And suddenly, it's all about the cash. No 10+ year old is going to instruct a hapless auntie on where to go and what to buy. They will, however, tell their parents. Or tell you which store they like. Saving up for a bearded gecko? Gift card. An ipod massage chair? Gift card. Jeans too expensive for anyone under 30? Gift card. Yep, for the 10 and over set it's gift card all the way. And yes, I know cash is king, but it often ends up being spent the wrong way. So stick witht he gift cards.

And Others? Sure you could go all out and buy the deluxe bath bombs or coffee mug 'n milk frother sets. Or not. At my son's school, the parents are banding together to give the gift of choice - a gift card to a mall. Each parent pays less than they would for an impersonal dud gift, and the teachers get to buy what they want, what they really, really want. Everybody wins!

Gift cards...they're not just for Christmas! New baby? Gift card is the most considerate way to go. Every new mom I know spends the first few months of their baby's life returning. Come on, people, you know it's true. Me, I've been practically living on giftcards and credit notes for the past 3 years. Birthdays? Showers? Weddings? Ditto, ditto, ditto.

Don't get all snippy now, I know how impersonal a gift card can be. But let's be honest here -everyone thinks they have great taste. And, sadly, most people don't. So unless the recipient is a little kid, or someone you know very very very well, or someone you want to either re-gift or cheap out on, opt for the gift that never disappoints and deck the halls. With loads of giftcards.
Fa la la la laaaaa, la la ka-ching!

GONE FISHING

Saturday night. Every new restaurant you wanna try is booked. Every old fave is, well, old. So you (I) let down your (my) guard and let the friends take care of the venue. Some place they went to a while back and liked. A place we never heard of, and had no on-line reviews (that counted). A place at the wrong end of the right street. Sounds like a recipe for disaster, right?

WRONG! Tho' it did start out a bit iffy...

Ferillo. We'd booked a table, but there really was no need. 'Cuz it was Saturday night and the joint was anything but jumping. In fact, it was Deadsville. I guess no one else had heard of Ferillo either. But what the hell! We'd bring our own atmo. We braved the subtle bleachy/worn mop smell and took our seats in the window.

And were we glad we did!

We started off with champagne. OK, it wasn't really champagne. It was the Portuguese version. But at $130 for a bottle of Veuve vs. $32 for the cheap swill, do you blame us? Guess what? It was delicious!

Maybe it was the bubbly, but what followed was a feast that met - and surpassed - even the snootiest of gastrosnobs: a massive appetizer platter filled with grilled octopus and squid, fried calamari and shrimp, and their tasty (but somewhat mismatched) salsa. House salad for four was served family style, complete with feta cheese and chickpeas.

And then came the mains: the fish.

This was the kind of place that brought out various fishies and mollusks so we could pick ourselves a winner. We ordered, they told us they'd run out of some things, we thought was strange (considering no one, but no one, was there), and we re-ordered. The fish arrived, heads or tails in tact for those that wanted it; deboned and perfect for those who didn't. The chef put together a platter of sides too - mushrooms, potatoes and a smattering of veg. But I didn't pay attention because I was too busy ooh-ing and aah-ing over my porgy and sampling my man's dorado.

In a word? Deeee-lish.

Homemade sugar crepes and frothy caps finished us off. We marvelled how such a yummy spot could be so, well, not hot. Why why why? They had a massive saltwater fishtank in the entrance, and even that was nearly empty!

You know how desperadoes are extra super nice? And how those who, erm, lack in physical perfection can compensate with sparkling personalities? That's Ferillo. It's a Meditteranean fish joint that, while having much in common menu-wise to that swanky hot spot at Ave and Dav, couldn't be more different.

In other words, Ferillo may be the poor cousin, but so what? It's tasty, the folks there are lovely, and food is great. All it needs - aside from some (any) customers, is a chance. The menu was nearly identical to That Other Fish 'n Tits joint - but with lower prices. The food was on par - if not superior.

And the only tits in the place were ours.


Ferillo
924 College W.
Doubt you'll need to book, but here's the #: 416 840 1144

AFTERNOON DELIGHT

I hate 4PM. 3:30 too. Hate 'em both. The day is winding down. It's finish-up-and-get-ready-to-go-Time. Too-late-to-start-something-new-Time. Too-tired-to-care-Time. For some, it's TV Time. For others, time to hit the gym. For me, it's please-perk-me-up-before-I-empty-the-fridge-Time. In other words, it's Coffee Time.

It used to be all about Grande Soy Lattes and low-fat, no-whip fraps. Then the unsweetened green tea lemonade took over, followed by my current fave, the non-fat, sugar-free vanilla latte. Spending my children's tuition at Starbucks? Uh, yeah...Who isn't?

Well, as of today, I'm not. Because there's a new drink in town. One you can enjoy from the comfort of your own home/office/personal space. And one that, while not all that cheap, is definitely cheerful and absolutely delicious. It's not really winterized, but who cares?

It's Pom Tea.

That's right, Pom Tea. I am now a walking ad for the stuff, 'cuz it's incredible.

Y'all know Pom, right? Or, sorry, PomWonderful (but who in their right mind actually calls it that? Puh-lease). It's that sexy bottle full of pomegranate juice. Some freakshows drink it straight, but it's far more palatable diluted. Better still diluted with fizzy water to make Pom Pop. Yum.

And now, the sequel has arrived. Pom, the Tea. Blackberry Black, Passion Peach White and, my personal fave, Lichee Green. All with pomegranate o' course. It's not too sweet, doesn't need to be diluted at all, and the packaging's kinda fun too, if a little odd. All Pom Teas come in their own somewhat ceremonial glass. Yes, a glass. I dunno know why. It just comes that way. With a lid.

Shake, sip, enjoy. But wait! It gets better: You can convince yourself you're actually drinking some sort of anti-aging elixir of the gods. A potent potion to ward off evil (lined) eyes. They call it PomRx but whatev. It just tastes good.

Will I be giving up my Starbucks fix forever? Of course not. What kind of gal do you take me for? I'm true blue loyal to their ripoff fancy coffees. But I'm also true blue loyal to all the friendlies, which is why I'm passing on the Pom.

Try it, you'll like it. And if it ends up being as good for you as it claims, you can thank me later. When we're all old, happy, healthy and hot.

Salute.

COMING SOON TO A THEATRE NEAR YOU...

Did everyone watch Oprah today?

No, wait...I mean, did everyone PVR Oprah today?

YOU DIDN'T?!?!?

Oh, poor souls, you missed out. You really did.

Disclaimer: I am not, by nature a daytime TV person. Never have been. When the sun goes down, that's a different story - the remote comes out. But I have too many guilt issues with daytime telly - unless I am severely under the weather or there's some hideous ambulance-chasing newsflash I can't turn away from. Reruns of sitcoms, maybe Ellen, OK. But Oprah? Very, very, rarely. I did watch the cast of Friends goodbye show, but that's about it.

See, when it comes to Ms Winfrey, I'm not a fan. In fact, she kinda bugs me. I kinda liked Fat Oprah. And Sophia-from-The-Color-Purple-Oprah. And I can appreciate and barely stomach Do-Gooder-Friend-of-Nelson-Mandela-Oprah. But thin-, marathoned-, and star-f&cking Oprah? Not for me. Too condescending. Too Benevolent Ruler of Minivan Moms in audience. Too earnest. Too annoying.

BUT I put it all aside for today. I got over my aversion to Oprah and to daytime TV for today. I really let myself go to the edge of the couch for today....For today was DREAMGIRLS day.

Yes, it's true. DREAMGIRLS has arrived. Ish. More specifically, it'll arrive at your local theatre on Christmas day. The lucky ones in LA and NYC will, as always, get it sooner, as will a handful of other selected spots (please please please let Toronto be one of them) (I know, it probably won't) (if you don't ask, you don't get) (why am I having a paranthetical conversation with myself) (because I can)...

My Euro friends, you probably don't even know what DREAMGIRLS is, let alone when it's coming. So you can just read along, safe in the knowledge that a damn fine show has been turned into a supposedly damn fine film and that you can - and should - book your tix AND your seats in advance.

So there they were: Beyonce, James Foxx, Anika-something-or-other, Ed Murphy and my fave, Jennifer Hudson. Her god-fearing (and spouting) ways aside, I love her. And so did the audience. She got a longer standing O than the Mighty Murphy. More whoops than the other folks combined. Rightfully so, folks, rightfully so.

For the eight of you people who didn't watch American Idol a couple of season back, she was one of the 3 divas. Fantasia, someotherchick, and Ms Hudson. She sang the Dreamgirls' showstopper (do I have to spell out everything? "I am Telling You I'm Not Going"). She was the first of the best to be booted, but baby, look at her now! Word on the street (and on the web) is she's the one to watch.As it should be. She was Effie on Idol and she's Effie now. Jennifer Hudson? The new Jennifer Holliday.

Beyonce (and, parents, it's pronounced Bee-yon-say, not Bee-Yawns) was, as always, a real lady. Babydoll Pajama dress aside, she was poised, stunning, and modest. A glamorama movie star 'til the end - complete with costume change. And, yes, she sang. She sang the one song that didn't come from the original soundtrack. Y'know, the Disneyfied, lyrically-on-the-nose, lame song: the Oscar song. B's pipes were so outstanding that she actually gave some life to a truly lame tune. Now that's star power.

There was the other chick, the Tony award winner whose name escapes me. She plays Lorell. The one no one really gives a shit about. But she gets a solo, and a paycheck and gets to be on Oprah, so let's not pity her.

Moving on.

Jamie Foxx. Talented? Yes. Hot? Yes. Somewhat runty? Kind of. He described himself as shiny. That says it all. Shiny good and shiny bad. And then they played some clips of him as Curtis. Clips he was proud of. Clips in which he sang all his own songs. May I remind you that he did no such thing in Ray. And maybe that's good thing. 'Cuz I've got two words for you: Weak Link. Yes, yes, yes, I'm sure his performance will be stellar. But a balladeer he ain't.

Now, was it me, or did Funny Murphy seem kinda sad? Cliche, I know, the sad clown and all, but he did. He seemed out of sorts and kind of down. Maybe Eddie finds Oprah annoying too. Or maybe he's just whipped by Scary Spice. Whatev - the few sound clips of him as James Thunder Early? Erm....smoking!

I first saw Dreamgirls when I'd pulled my braces off at sleepover camp so I could go home and call a boy I liked. I was that kind of girl. His number turned out to be unlisted (loo-hoo-ser), but I got to go and see Dreamgirls. And then I saw it again on Broadway. I've had my mother quoting it to me for years. I've sung every breath of every song in countless car rides. I've participated in (and nearly wrecked) an amateur production of the thing. I've cast the movie in my head and - I don't mind bragging - pegged Beyonce and Jenny Hudson long before the producers even did. I even watched The Oprah Earnest Show to get a glimpse of the Dreamgirls Dreamteam. Along with a handful of other diehards, I've been waiting for this moment for 25 bloody years, so please, forgive my excitement.

And now, I pass that excitement on to you, loyal readers. Let the countdown begin:
One month, five days...

HALLOWEEN 101

Smash your pumpkins, 'cuz everyone's favourite pagan holiday has ended. Christmas Bargains have (already!)replaced Halloween Spooktaculars. I'd say it's about time for....a Halloween post mortem! Just in case you weren't sick and tired of all things black 'n orange, here's your last chance to sit back and reflect on Halloween's gone by...Aaaah yes, the olde glance backwards to see what we can learn for - and forget about by - next Hallow's Eve...

Grab some candy, then read on....

Things have definitely changed since I was a trick-or-treater. Where have all the caramels gone? And when did candy get so pricey? And so puny? Two Hershey's kisses in a mini pack? That's just rude. Even the-already tiny Rockets have shrunk into mini versions. It ain't right.

We used to go with pillow cases and come back with them overflowing. Sure there were a few duds, the odd, ahem, bad apple, but on the whole, score galore. My own kids didn't do nearly as well. I don't know if it's the new punes, the rising price, or if the competition. My kids don't care, and I should be grateful - the less they get, the less I steal from them.

I also think in certain 'hoods (ie, mine), the overcorwding becomes an issue. People spend hundreds on dollars on the candies and then dole 'em out in single servings. The only supersizing going on was at the new infill houses. If you made it up the stairs you were rewarded - big time.

Around the corner is one of THOSE houses - ghouls on the roof, ghosts on the trees, corpses in the garden. The line up goes down the street as people come from miles around to see That Crazy House - or maybe they just want to try to get on tv. Yup, even the cameras are there - I should know, I pimped out my kids to try and make 'em stars. But they were too busy wiping the noses on my shoulder to bother screaming on cue.

That kind of place is a real draw, it is. But we've discovered that by going destination shallouting around there, you simply don't cash in come sorting-out time. It's the regular streets that are the winners. Even the quieter sides of the traffic-y ones kick candy butt. Choices, reach-ins, multiples. It's confection porn -and not in a creepy way.

'Cuz let's face it, Halloween is kinda creepy. Forget the fact that all the marketing crap has worked.

(aside: North Americans spent almost as much on Halloween as Christmas. I chalk it up, in part, to the fact that all non-Christians can finally get over their Christmas envy by decorating their houses. I know mine subsided a bit when I strung up the fairy lights...I mean, lit up spider web...on my front porch.)

But back to the creep factor. Let's discuss. Hologram skeletons on doors? Creepy. Grown women dressing up as schoolgirls? Creepy, creepy, creepy. Bunnies, kittens, curves-ahead road costumes? Whatev. I get it. Not for me, but I get it. That's not creepy. But the schoolgirl fetish stuff? Sorry, it's creepy. Giver-outters getting a bit wasted? Not so creepy. Trying to include us in their revelry? A little toooo welcoming. Creepy.

And the creepiest of all? The mask factor. I get chills just picturing them. Those who know me know I have mask issues. Big time. But come on people, who doesn't?! They're revolting. Those rubberized ones are the worst! I took my son (also mask-phobic) for a test drive of masks. He found most of them creepy, but titillating - the gorilla, the zombie, the werewolf. The scariest? The rubberized blond woman. What happened to makeup? Or that fun face-painting pray? Down with mak! Up with people!

But what have we learned from it all? That candy and costumes go on sale the day before Halloween, but that prices are halved the day after. That crowded streets make for lousy end-of-night paydays. That every girl under 6 dresses up as a Princess. They just do. And every one over 6 goes witch or goes home. That no one makes their own costume anymore.

And, finally, we learned that sometimes the parents get to fish their wish. And not just by eating all the Reeses Peanut Butter Cups and pretending it's for their children's health. No, they get lucky by wishing for a shot of something to keep their energy up and then - poof! Finding a house with a couple of blokes dressed as Russian Sailors and handing out, yep, shots of Vodka. Cuz it really happened! Now that makes for a Happy Halloween!

BOO!

SHOWS GONE WILD

It’s the end of Oct. A time of ghouls and goblins. A time of warmer jackets and pumped up heaters. A time of, you guessed it, television. For as the leaves fall and the suns sets earlier, what’s more inviting than curling up on the couch with your remote?

Trouble is – where have all the good shows gone?

There are the handful of early cancellations, like Smith. And possibly Studio 60 (if it hasn’t happened already). Or the disappearing acts, like Kidnapped. The ones where they show us a marathon, then yank ‘er down. Poof! Gone. Like Prison Break. It disappeared after hooking us in with killing a-plenty, but at least that one’s back. Grey’s Anatomy? Come and gone. Not left-the-building gone – they’re treating us to repeats. Double whammy repeats. As if those who wanted to watch had missed the first couple of eps. Come on! Ditto for House. Why why why? Those who like ‘em, like ‘em a lot.

If you want to hook newbies, do the new/old combo platters. But don’t punish the rest of us. Or go the CSI/Law & Order route – flick and you’ll catch it ‘cuz it’s on all the time. That seems to be working with some new faves - Heroes, The Nine, Six Degrees. They seem to be on different times, or at least different channels, every week.

Will the real Thursday night please stand up?

Y’know, Thursday. It’s always been the best night of the week – for going out, obvo, but also for staying in. PVR or not, Thursday night was line-up night.

How’s a fan s’posed to be loyal? How’s a PVR s’posed to work? I asked you, what’s an addict to do? The only shows that seem consistent are Thursday stalwart Survivor – and who even watches that anymore – and newbie Ugly Betty. Both Thursday nighters to be sure, but hardly worthy of line-up status on their own. Besides, you need 3 shows for Line-Up. Otherwise, it’s just back-to-back. And that’s a Sunday thing.

Once upon a time, Sunday was nearly the new Thursday. It had Arrested Development, Desperate Housewives and Grey’s. But the braniacs ditched smart funny, moved medical and left us with Desperadoes and Studio 60 (which if it stay on, also airs Monday).

So does that make Monday the new Thursday? Prison Break, 24 (as of Jan) and Studio 60 if-you-missed it. Nope, ‘cuz Studio 60 is too clever clever and will be gone soon. Friday Night Lights isn’t bad, but will it stay on Mondays or be moved? It really should be on –duh - Fridays.

Tuesdays are good. And Wednesday too. But no triple-threats. Donnie and Marie used to be Friday specials. And even last year loyal viewers were rewarded with Nip/Tuck. But not this year. Not in Canada. Which leaves us with Saturday. And puh-lease, is anybody watching on Saturday nights anymore? The lineup of yesteryear – Love Boat, Fantasy Island, Saturday Night Live – has gone to TV heaven (or, ahem, should be).

What’s left? TV thumb. The affliction which comes from the constant flipping around to find what you want, when you want (so you can record it and watch when you really want).

Maybe it’s a sign. Time to get off the couch. Time to get out of the house. And hit the Cinemas instead!

GO CHEAP OR GO HOME

Is cheap the new black?

Sexy, hip, flattering.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. But is cheap the new black?

Erm, not at Zara. Yeah, it's chic 'n cheap but it's also crap. And not in the disposable way Le Crapeau...I mean Le Chateau... is crap. We're talking ripped-while-still-on-the-hanger crap, as opposed to wear, tear, and toss crap. Oddly, their kids' line is not crap. Mind you, it ain't cheap. But it's stunning - especially for boys.

Ditto H &M. Awesome duds for the kids, but for ladies? Duds of a different kind. For this gal at least. Believe me, I've tried. But 'twas not to be. The fit, the fabric, or just the itch factor - there was always something a bit off.

Winners? Dirty. Old Navy? XXXXXL. Fairweather? Puh-lease. And the list goes on.

So I stuck with fancy. The supersoft shirts, yummy sweaters, perfect pants. All mine. For a price. A very hefty price. And y'know what I found? That a lot of the high end stuff was crap too! No sooner had I washed and worn than I'd find a little teeny tiny hole. Or a snag. Or an unravelled cuff or jagged hem. And don't get me started on cotton tees that start to ball. It's the worst.

But what's a fashion victim to do? Shelling out the big bucks didn't work. And the cheap and cheerful left me feeling anything but...

Until now.

There's a new kid in town. Let's call him Joe. For real. 'Cuz the place is called Joe Fresh and basically, it's clothes shopping at Loblaws.

WAIT!

Before you delete and think I must've completely lost my mind, read on. I actually debated sharing this dirty little secret. In fact, some friends kindly suggested I keep my mouth shut (at least until after they'd checked it out themselves). But alas loyal readers, you've earned it. You've shared my blog, you've liked my blog - you've actually read my blog! So here's a little tidbit for you.

Joe Fresh. As in Joe-who-used-to-own-Club-Monaco. As in the guy who got lured away by the kind folks at Loblaws. As in who the hell cares? You won't. Cred be damned! If you can get over the fact that it's, well, grocery shopping for fashion, you'll be glad that you did.

Housed in suburban Superstores and in the Old Caban space beside, yup, Loblaws, you will meet Joe Fresh. Nice, plain, simple. And did I mention, cheap? Tees for a tenner. Jeans under $30. And yoga pants and tops that fit and feel EXACTLY like your Lulus - but without the hefty price tag (pants are $29)(that's right, no type-o: $29)

AND not only are the clothes flattering - the sizes are somewhat generous too. So you can try on stretchy jeans and check out your butt - or thighs, or hips or calves - and marvel at the fact that you're wearing a size smaller than you thought. Who doesn't love that? Especially compared to all the fancy pants around that were definitely not designed for women of childbearing age. Paige Jeans excepted.

I got a bit carried away this morning: jeans, shirt, vest, sweater, and more. What with these prices...And the turnover is crazy fast as the stuff flies off the shelves...'Cuz at these prices... Finally, I do hear you, skeptics. It may all turn out to be more disposable fashion crap. Only time will tell. But again, at these prices...

OPRAH, MOVE OVER

Yes, I have hobbies other than television.
Yes, I am literate. Ahem. Quite, thank you.
Yes, I have taken to giving away my books.

And yes, I've ended up buying books I've read before.

What does all this mean? Why should you give a rat's ass? I'll tell you why. Because, at long last, I am giving the people what they want: the eagerly awaited, long anticipated, not imitated: MOAM BOOK CLUB.

I don't know why I wrote "not imitated". Book clubs are a dime a dozen. And many of you may have even read some of these winners. But not all of 'em. Besides, this is my answer to the oft asked "read any good books lately?".

The answer, a resounding YES.

So here, in no particular order, are my top picks for the past year. Give or take a couple of months. Most have been out for a while, 'cuz I like to wait for paperback. Not just because I'm cheap, but also, who wants to lug a hardcover book around? They're heavy, they're not great in bed, and they only look good on your bookshelves if you give a shit. And, as someone who's taken to giving my books away, I don't. So....

WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT KEVIN. We need to talk about this book. We need to talk about Lionel Shriver (aside: she's a woman. Lionel. That's right.). She's also a genius. This is a chilling, twisted book about a high-school shooter. Told by the kid's mother. Those who are parents will be looking for signs of sociopathic tendencies in their own children. Those who are not will wonder if they should dare procreate. Kids these days...

A WOMAN IN BERLIN. An anonymous writer shares her memoirs from the fall of Berlin after the 2nd World War. It was, essentially, a rape-fest. This book was banned in Germany and only republished after the writer died. It's brutal. And it's excellent.

MAPS FOR LOST LOVERS. Nadeem Aslam. Set in a community of immigrants from the subcontinent who have moved to England in search of a better life. Culture clashes. East meets West. Old vs. new. Commnities on fire. Oh, and loves lost too. Not as melodramatic as I'm making it sound.

A BLADE OF GRASS. Lewis de Soto. Ditto. But this time it's White woman+ Black woman + unnamed Southern African country. Don't worry, it's NOT Cold Mountain. Way better. Way smarter. Way sadder.

CROSSING CALIFORNIA. I haven't forgotten you, boys. Adam Langer's spot on and hilarious coming-of-age novel set in the Chicago of the 70's. Especially funny if you lived it. And even funnier if if you had older sibs (or friends with older sibs) who did. You'll laugh out loud. You will.

Books on Film:
LITTLE CHLDREN. Tom Perrotta. Bored suburban mom takes up with bored suburban dad. And that's just the start. Movie version is coming soon. Very very soon. read it first so yu can discuss which is better.

RUNNING WITH SCISSORS. Augusten Bourrough's hilarious account of his wild 'n crazy childhood. One of those truth-is-stranger-fiction books. Way stranger. And way better.

Finally, my two faves of the past year:

EXTREMELY LOUD AND INCREDIBLY CLOSE by Jonathan Safran Foer.

THE HISTORY OF LOVE by Nicole Krauss.

Where to begin? I don't want to ruin them in any way. STUNNING. I read them back to back, GENIUS x 2, and they've become more or less one un-f&cking-believable book in my head. AWESOME in every sense of the word. Even better, I just learned that these two extremely young and incredibly briliant writers are a couple. A COUPLE!!! Is it an urban myth? A simple rumour? Does it matter? Read these two babies and imagine that the authors are in love. How could either find anyone better?!

So there you go. I haven't bothered with the ones that didn't come close to the hype. Or the real duds. Nor shall I. Between the life, the kids and the TV, who has time for a bad book? And yeah, I don't doubt that for every book I've listed, someone has many more I've missed. Sorry, kids. My blog, my books. That said, I'm always looking for the next best thing and of course all suggestions are most welcome....

THE HAPPY HOOKAH

Doing dinner.

Sounds great, right? Except for the dreaded question: where to go. French? I don't get the fuss - the fussy food or the big deal. Southeast Asian? Done done done. Tapas? Some slabs of piggy and olives? Can be tasty, but naah. Chinois? Soooo not Saturday night fare.

And the list goes on. And on. And on. The hipster spots are too busy. The neighbourhood spots too, well, neighbourhoody. You go through the city, street by street, trying to think of somewhere new and different and then it hits.

Banu.

Ba-who?

There's a new kid in town. Our town. Sorry foreign readers, you may want to stop now. But locals, keep readng. It's down on Queen Street. Past the throngs of Queen West, but not too far deep into the newly-minted trendoids of Queen West West West. Look closely and you'll find it, Banu: an unpretentious, delicious and totally unique vodka-and-kebab experience.

That's right, experience.

If you find it. Banu has no sign, only Farsi writing overtop a blue-tinged sepia photo on the glass door. Once inside, you may be a bit confused - the place feels more spa than supper. Actually, it feels like a Hammam. I know I'm mixing my cultures here, but it feels like whatever the Iranian equivalent of a Turkish bath is. But go with it.

Pick your vodka - you've got about 14 to choose from. Pretend you're an afficianado and try try try. Or just go for one of their delicious martinis: sour cherry, pomegranate or (yawn) plain. Then open your menu. You'll find 3 starters, 3 salads, 3 yoghurts. That's right, yoghurts. And a whole slew of kebabs.

Aaaaah, the humble kebab. It's not just a late-night drink absorber anymore. Banu takes these humble meat sticks and turns them into an art form. We skipped the lamb balls and heart (I swear!), opting for more traditional fare of ground beef, marinated beef tenderloin, lamb chops and saffron chicken. Yum, yum, and yum. (Note only 3 out of four 'yums'. Skip the chicken.)

Food arrived family-style, on a plate lined with traditional bread - I haven't a clue what it's called. It's thinner than pita but it could be just that. Also on the platter were green onions, radishes, and a handful of greens. Herbs, that is: mint, basil and tarragon leaves.

And that's it. A lovely restaurant. Looked pretty. Tasty food. The end.

Or so we thought. Boy we were wrong. 'Cuz with the dessert menu came something else. A little thing some people like to call a Hookah.

HOOKAH HOOKAH HOOKAH

Water pipe, bong, call it what you want. We had a choice of around 10 flavours and went for the blackberry. And for those of you who are thinking we sat around getting high - maybe we did. But it was on blackberry molasses.

Huh?

I know, I know. I didn't get it then, and I don't get it now. I'ma hookah virgin. All's I know is we sat around the table, inside the restaurant, smoking! Yes, smoking. But nary an evil eye in sight. 'Cuz with no nicotine, tar, or nasty bi-products, this was a totally natural, delicious way to lounge. And for those of you with an aversion to other people's, erm, spit, fret not - every one is treated to their own hermetically sealed, totally non-gross plastic pipe.

The hookah went for an hour (insert porny jokes here). We smoked. We watched it bubble and burn. We marvelled. We smoked some more. Look at us! We're so rad! Check us out! Tourists in our own town!

HOOKAH!

We topped it all off with Iranian desserts and tea and marvelled at how, well, different it was from your average night out for dinner. It was, as they say, an experience.

HOOKAH!

Are you experienced?

TV TIMES

Bonjour kittens, have you missed me?

Let's see, what's been happening? Hmmm. So many exciting, life changing events to share... My eldest child has started nursery school AND peed in a toilet (but only at said nursery school). My baby started walking last week. I've discovered President's Choice Memories of Kashmir tandoori sauce. But if you're looking for any type of real-life domestic drama then I'm afraid, for today at least, you've come to the wrong place.

You see, my name is Mother of all Mavens. And I am an addict.

(let's hear it: "Hi, MOAM")

My addiction? It's called t-e-l-e-v-i-s-i-o-n.

It's actually quite overwhelming. Or is it?! With my trusty PVR, no show is too lame to at least test-drive. And since we're home practically every weeknight anyway, why the hell not, right? Sure, PVR may be my crack, but with the plethora of new fall shows, it's an absolute must.

'Cuz I've been glued to the tv nightly. Pausing, skipping through, and of course playing all the shows to my heart's delight. And, mes amis, there are many. Where to begin? True blues? New faves? Oh what the hell - here they are, cheese and all.

First off, my oldies (in 10 words, or less):
Grey's Anatomy: still kinda soft, but still kinda love it.
Weeds: Genius.Way better than that other housewife show. GENIUS!
Prison Break: no longer just a pre-24 time-waster.
House: maybe getting a little tired. Boston Legal: ditto.
But we'll keep 'em both. For now.

Forgive me, but we aren't a "Lost" house. We've tried, but it ain't for us. Missed The Office boat and feel it's too late to climb aboard. Don't get Earl - is dumb the new funny? Not at our house. CSI, Law & Order. Blah blah blah. Why waste precious PVR time on shows airing 24/7? Tony Zuiker and Dick Wolf may as well have their own specialty channels. Oh wait, they kinda do: NBC and CBS.

Yeah, we've skipped the top models, the amazing races, the dances with the stars. Big Brother, Big Losers and any kind of spouse-swapping show has also passed us by. We're giving Survivor a miss this year too. How many morons does it take to outsmart a moron? Erm, who cares?

We missed Smith, but tried Shark. Watched Brothers and Sisters, and ditched It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia.

It seems 2006 is the year of the "from-the-creators-of" series. Those are the true buzzy shows. From the lame trio: Celebrity Duets, The Class, and Men in Trees (no Idol, Friends or Sex in the City, respectively) to the knock-your-socks-offs: Studio 60, Six Degrees, Heroes (West Wing, Lost, Crossing Jordan). Studio's a must-see: very sharp and clever. Six Degrees is potentially compelling, and definitely worth a second look.

And then there's Heroes. I probably should've started with this one, but instead have saved the best for last. Yup, it's the reward for those of you who are still reading. Heroes is incredible. Admittedly, it's not something I would've come to on my own. The whole "ordinary people discovering extraordinary abilities" thing didn't turn my crank. But I was given the heads up on this one. An inside scoop. A friend of mine read a draft of the pilot and told me it was one of the best scripts he'd ever read. Still, ESP, stopping time, flying...That kinda stuff can go either way. Well, we tuned in. And it blew us away. People, trust me - it is awesome. Twisty and riveting and chilling. And there's an encore presentation tonight.

I know, I know. You're scratching your head in wonder, thinking "How does she do it"? Raising two kids, being a domestic goddess, pursuing a high-flyin' career, watching a helluva lot of tv... Well, I have help. And my career is stalled. And, need I mention it yet again? PVR.

Still to come: Ugly Betty, 24, Idol. And where the hell is Nip/Tuck? Anyone? Anyone? I know our American cousins get it. Where's our slice of the pie?!

HEY JUDE II

Did you know Jude Law is the president of the United States?

No? Me neither. Maybe someone should tell his handlers 'cuz they are totally outta control...

I went to see Breaking & Entering, Anthony Minghella's not-perfect-but-worth-seeing flick starring my boy, Jude. I had hoped (against hope) to score a bit of a photo op, like I did back in the day when Ralph Fiennes topped my List. But, alas, 'twas not to be.

Pre-screening I tried to be inconspicuous in the Gala Green Room. Mind you, I did bring a tall, leggy blond with me, figuring at least I'd get Mr Law to look my way with such bait. But no dice. Other, yeah. Jude, no go. He came, he twinkled, he conquered. Again. And then he was gone, out to join his costars on stage.

Who?

Well, Juliette Binoche was there in a very lovely dress and a not-as-lovely hair accessory. But she was quite sweet and smiley...and blonde. Go figure. Hopefully it's just for a role, 'cuz it doesn't do her justice. Not by a long shot. Especially when she stands next to Princess Buttercup.

Aaah the magnificent Robin Wright. Crazy gorgeous. And all smiles too - maybe because it was her movie and she didn't have to babysit her surly hubby. I love Bad Boy Penn as much as the next gal, but he is a broody little fellow, isn't he?!

Dixie Chiclets were there too. And they're really friendly and gracious and, well, nice. Clever girls cottoned on to the idea that when you're in town promoting your own movie, you're SUPPOSED to all those positive things! Duh - isn't that the point?

Something else Jude's handlers should learn. After the movie, after the applause, after the stading ovation we stuck around. "We" being 4 people, two officially s'posed to be there, and 2, er, not. I was one of the latter. Anyhoo, the key players made their happy way downstairs. They accepted the accolades thrust their way by our group - except one who, when told that we enjoyed the film asked if we'd seen it.

Huh?

And then Jude emerged. At least I think it was him. His people had him corralled and were frogmarching him out to the car. All he could do was shrug helplessly as he was bundled off by the speedy secret service types. Haste made waste as we were left in his dust.

And then there was Emilio....

Saw "Bobby" last night. Despite the film's few tales too many, I was really moved. Yes, to tears. Y'see, I chose to ignore the movie's flaws and just go with it - especially 'cuz it was a blast playing spot-the-celeb. My Man and I elbowed each other every time a new famous face appeared on screen. And now we're bruised. The rollout of stars was never ending. Some worked, some didn't. But still, everybody should go and see the movie. RFK's speeches date back nearly 40 years, yet they could - and should - be made today. So sad, and yet so true.

So good on you Emilio! A far cry from "Kirby he'll freeze", that's for sure! And what's better than having a bratpacker right there in front of your eyes?

I know! TWO bratpackers! Yep, Mr. Estevez's former fiancee, Demi, was there. With her current hubby. And, unlike the other night, Dashton didn't try to hide: waving to fans, even pulling down their car window as they drove off. Ditto Sharon Stone. She dazzled the curb crawlers as they called her name. And it's gotta be said, that Shazzy is drop-dead gorgeous. I don't care what she or Demi have spent on their bodies and faces - worth every penny.

Who else? Christian Slater - hasn't aged. Pacey...I mean, Josh Jackson, was there, along with a myriad of screaming youngsters.The guy's still got it! Who knew? Joy Bryant...not sure why she isn't more famous. She's very good and very hot. What more could you want?

Sadly, that was the last of the film fest films for this chick. Our babysitting bill has gone through the roof. Our kids forget what we look like. And I'm sick of popcorn for dinner. Blah blah blah.

Maybe next year I'll be reunited with Jude-judy-judy-judy-judy-judy Law. Or not. My ever-changing moods. And Lists... Happy End of Fest everyone.

THE ROCK REPORT

Lu-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-kas!

From Hooters to Hero, our local boy has been crowned king. Yep, the Rossi Posse is celebrating as their victory. Lukas Rossi... Superstar of Supernova. It's all very exciting.

Or is it?

Of course I'm pumped that he won. He and Stormy were my faves and god knows it was never gonna be Ms Large in charge. Go, Lukas, go. The pursed lips, the strut, the voice - what more could a girl ask?

She could ask for ABD. She could cross her fingers or clench her fists and hope against hope. ABD. ABD. ABD.

Anyone But Dilana.

Hurray! Mama troll was sent packing... into the recording studio with Dave and Gilby to prep for the tour she'll open. Hell, that's not so bad. In some ways, it's even better. Mind you, where are those guys from Rockstar INXS? Besides delivering Honda Elements to non-winners and flogging their soon-to-be-released albums. See? The Survivor curse strikes again. If you win the car, you lose the game.

But alas, I'm surprised. I really thought Tobes would win. Not because he was that awesome. And not because he was that talented. And not because he got the girls goin'. Au contraire...he was "Evs". But I think the band is too. Thus, a perfect fit. Oh-oh-oh-oh.oh.oh meets a hey-hey-hey. But obviously these boys knew a true talent when they saw one, so Mr Rand heads back to Oz. Dilana screams her way cross country, and the rest is history in the making....

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Let's face it: when it's over, it's over.

Every week, we discussed Rockstar - who's in, who's out, who should be in or out. And now it's done. And who really cares? Aaaah... the fleeting nature of stardom. I didn't even mention the surprise appearance by Earnie Ernesto Star. Nor the ousting of Magni.

Who? What? When?

Oh. And I forgot something else. Maybe the reason I'm all blase this morning has less to do with Dave and the boys and more to do with someone named Roger. Roger with an "s". And that bloody PVR that let me down...again!

Honestly, a girl goes out to stalk her movie star boyfriend and returns to find a half-taped reality show. A half-taped reality show FINALE! Was it the PVR? Was it the network? Was it a sign? It couldn't be the Universe's way of telling me to get a life, 'cuz the PVR lets me have a life and watch one too. Harumph.

BUT, again, who cares? Who'll remember any of these rockers next year? Or next week? Maybe they could do a special where are they now...I'll be sure to PVR it. Because when --if-- I think back to this season of Rockstar, I just might remember the winner and losers. But I'll never forget how my PVR betrayed me. Again.

PVR. Can't live with it, can't cancel it.

HEY JUDE

September. Back to school. Back to books. Back to teachers' dirty looks.

Back to everybody's dirty looks 'cuz the Toronto Int'l Film Fest is on. The stalking, gawking, and party crashing has begun. Not for me tho'. Despite daily visits to Ted, Lainey, and Perez (and a 'script to US Weekly), I refuse to lower myself to the standards of the camera-toting throngs, opting to see some films instead.

And of you believe that....

That's right kittens, after sitting out last year due to newborn babe (and accompanying heft and angst) I'm back in the green room. Sorta. Gone are the heady days of lounging backstage at the Galas. What? You call it skulking around, I call it lounging. Tomato/Tomahto. Anyhoo, those days are done, replaced by the wealthy big game hunters who pay to play with the stars. Or stand near 'em, cuz their handlers have become ever so ferocious, protecting their charges from the flashes of unathorized cameras. But whatever, I can still share, right?

So sit back and relax, cuz this might take a while. Ladies and Gents, I bring you the First Annual Mother of All Mavens, Not-even-close-to-the-red-carpet, All-singin', All-dancin' Revue Review.

AKA the who's nice, who's rude, and who's loaded with tude report. With a slice of cinema on the side.

First off, saw a Brit Flick called Confetti. LOVED IT! Hilarious and completely improvised. Took 'em 6 weeks to shoot, yet 6 months to cast. Well worth the wait because these actors are GENIUS. Anyone who is married, was married, wants to get married or - hell, knows anyone who is/was/will be married should go go go. Opens later this fall. Remember: C-O-N-F-E-T-T-I. The little flick that could...

Unlike Volver. Sorry Pedro, but I was unimpressed. Sure I liked the film, but I wanted to love it. Problemo was Penny. She was just too hot to handle. Seriously, her beauty was distracting. The camera loves this gal. Little Pia was there in person and, while obviously pretty, I hate to break it to ya boys, but she's certainly not the robobabe she is on-screen. Go figure.

On the other hand, a man who IS a robobabe (in a farmhanded kind of way) is Brad Pitt. But y'know what? I kinda felt bad for him. The stage was lined 3 deep with snappers (hee hee) and the second Brad set foor on stage the place turned into a rave. They should've warned us. We're talkin' seizure-inducing amounts of flashbulbs. They should've warned Brad too 'cuz he became a deer in the headlights. Poor guy. And he's quite slight, not nearly as hunky as expected. Beyond the pretty face was the movie itself: BABEL. Now we're talking magnificent. It was un-f&cking-believable. Run, don't walk. Intense and brutal and amazing and and and. Can't praise it enough.

Oh, and after it was all over? It was like being at a boyband concert. Deafening screams, chants, the works. Ole, ole, ole Brad Pitt indeed. We found ourselves outside with the greatest access ever (basically outside his car. Yes, his car) (we'll take what we can get, thank you). But my Man and I decided to just take it in stride. And leave. Why stoop to such levels of stalkerazzi? He's just a guy after all...

Unlike Jude Law.

He's my fave. Topper on my List. That List. And he. was. there. last night. But wait!Before we get to him, I must tell you we saw Christopher Guests eagerly anticipated oscar spoofer, For Your Consideration.

Two words:

Wha happened?

Loved Waiting for Guffman. Adored Best in Show. Amused by A Mighty Wind. Wouldn't consider Consideration. I hate to be the one to tell y'all, but it sorta sucked. Yes it was amusing, of course it was. But the subject matter was ripe for the pickin' and they barked up the wrong trees. Think of any metaphor for DISAPPOINTED and you'll get my drift. Kudos, however, go to Kitty O'Hara. As always, she stole the show. And Fred Willard wasn't bad either. But the rest of the gang? Solid "c": Coulda done better.

Jude Law. Jude Law Jude Law Jude Law. J-u-d-e L-a-w.

In a flick called All the King's Men. With Sean Penn, Kate Winslet, Mark Ruffalo, Anthony Hopkins, Patricia Clarkson and James Gandolfini. Star-studded? Whatev, wake me when it's over. Or so said my Man. And he had the right idea.

Flick was a heavy handed snoozefest that went like somethin' like this: narration by the gorgeous and talented Mr Law. Screaming speech by Crazy-haired Penn. Plot, plot, plot. Shot of cross-lined rural road. Dramatic music. Shot of car/train/truck nearly missing camera. More narration by the gorgeous and talented Jude Law. Another screaming speech, etc. And repeat. Over and over and over.

Swing and a miss.

And the kids themselves?

Sean Penn? Surly, as you'd expect. Princess Buttercup? Gorgeous. Might way 100lbs on a bad day, as you'd expect. Jimmy Gandolfini? A brute and boor, as you'd expect (come on, people, he could go either way) Mark R.? Divine. As you'd expect. Kitty Winslet? Eyebrows aside, a stunner - and also quite tiny. As you may not expect.

And Jude? I could barely look at him. Magnifique! But he'll be making another appearance later this week. As will I. As you'd expect. Hopefully I'll muster up the mustard to actually look at him for more than 2 seconds. Or not. Stay tuned for all that...And more!

ANOTHER ROCK REPORT

What the what is ladylike?

It's Ms Susie Large's exit...

Sadly, Dilana...she's not a goner...Just wishful thinking on my part. Instead, the Troll remains while Stormy goes home. I for one am saddened and disappointed by the expulsion of my crusher girl. The clockwork orange hat crime aside, she made such a comeback! Or so we (I) thought. The Suffragette City/Orig combo? Don't tell me she didn't work the stage like a pro. And by pro, I mean Pro. Around-a-pole, pay-for-it Pro. But 'twas not to be. Even Touchy-Feely Newsted's tears couldn't save her, so she's gone to sleep in her own bed.

Personally, I think she should be sharing it with a certain Mr. Navarro. Good chemistry, no? And a whole other reality show in the making. Bye bye Stormy, so sad to see you go.

So who's it gonna be? Will it be Magni? Dependable, boring, stif-on-stage Magni? Doubt it.

Dilana? Noooooo. How they gave her a standing O last night is beyond me. Yes she got the crowd all riled up, but at one point I wasn't sure if she was standing or sitting, and that just ain't right. And it's not front (wo)man material either. Then again, what do I know? I doubt I'd be a Supernova fan anyway.

I am however, a fan of Lukas. Yep, a full-fledged member of the Rossi Possy. But dontcha think he's better suited on Rockstar: Radionhead? The guy's too intense for this group. And if he does win, I think JayJay New(age)sted might find himself too distracted and involved in the analysis of Lucky Lou....

One more thing. A stolen observation. Celeb reference of the day: Rockstar Supernova's Lukas Rossi...and Ron Howard's creepy character actor brother.

And then there's the frontrunner. The fun guy. The guy's guy. The guy who, according to one TV critic, makes the blond girls scream. To me he's just a fun-lovin', beer-drinkin' mimic. Evs indeed. But to the boys in the band he's a superstar:

To-oh-oh-oh-oh-by.

But hold off placing your bets. Remember The Survivor Curse? Y'know, on Mark Burnett's other reality show the cat who wins the car never, ever, ever wins the big prize. So I hope for Toby's sake that this ain't the case. Especially that car. A Honda Element? That's a rockstar car? A student rockstar maybe.

It's the final countdown. Na na na na and all that. And when our rockin' prince(ss) is crowned we'll have to make some important decisions. To buy or not to buy tix for the Snoozernova tour, whether the added bonus of the House Band and Shirtless Dave opening makes it all worhtwhile, and of course, the biggest question of all: what to watch now?

MEN IN CARS

Oh, the boys and their toys. When will they learn that their rides are not their lives. Or, if they need to have machines to reflect who they are, maybe they should get it right.

Why cruise a Ram if you're really a Vespa?

More specifically, what's with men who drive ladymobiles?

I kinda get the whole penis extension/check-out-my-Porsche thing. No, I don't agree with it, but I can kinda see how they think they're flexing their, ahem, muscle. And the dudes with their souped up trucks and pimped out wheels? Fine, leave 'em to it and let them think they're snowing us with their prowess on - ooooh, and off - the road. Sure we're wise to 'em, but let them be. It all makes sense in a strange-but-true sorta way.

But what is it with the (straight?) guys who drive the little red sportsters? Or, better still, the ones in the turquoise reissued t-birds? Sooooo not their demo.

And I think they know it.

Here's what happened today. I was helping my sister-in-law get our two kids into their carseats. Her car. Our kids. 4 and 3 years old. And this guy in a - you guessed it - turquoise (or would you call it aqua?) convertible Thunderbird, pulls up and starts honking us. Then, ever-so-rudely, he tells us to quit talking and start driving.

I beg your pardon???

Sadly, I was forced, after more rudeness on his part, to punctuate my sentence with a F&ck You. And those who know me, know I never do that. But this guy didn't know that. Suddenly, bravado gone, he started muttering about us putting our makeup on....Not sure what he was on about. But, feeling emboldened, I asked, "do you think I care what you think?!" Oh yeah! Who's in the driver's seat now, buddy? Not him. He took one look at our butcher-than-his car and drove away.

To the empty spot two cars down.

And when he got out of his car, my sister-in-law noted that he was pushing 50 and scraping by the 5 and a half foot mark. Which got us to thinking...Was he rude and impatient and revolting because of an obvious Napoleonic complex? Or was he as he was because, simply put, he chose the wrong car?

Maybe he thought a convertible would make him feel younger. Or taller. Erm, nicest day in weeks today and the roof was firmly fixed. So, no, it wasn't the soft top. Maybe he thought the colour would make him hip and happening. Foiled again, friend. Girl, girl and more girl. And, finally, perhaps he figured the new Thunderbird, echoing the old classic, would take him back to the golden oldie days of yore. But I have a feeling this guy never drove a T-bird back in the day...

You see, according to my sources, while this car looks great, ie. pretty, it drives like a town car. In other words, boys looking for performance and all that need not apply. But if you only want to look great, ie, pretty, then climb aboard. And maybe that's what got this guy all steamed up. Instead of a display of his manhood, he ended up in a mom-mobile. An older, empty-nester, mom-mobile.

So gents, before you vent and strut and hem and haw for no real reason, take a look in the mirror. And the rearview. You can't puff out your chest if you're driving the auto equivalent of pink fluffy slippers. You just can't. And if that's WHY you're so upset, then put on your soft rock, get into the right lane and get over it. Wuss.

THE ROCK REPORT

The heady days of summer are winding down. And with them the dreaded summer TV shows. Summer TV is Dead! Long live Summer TV! Entourage may be done, but Rockstar Supernova is alive and kicking! For a couple more weeks anyway.

That's right readers, you've begged, you've pleaded, you've given me ideas I can use as my own... So now, with a mere 5 rockers left, I present you with: The Rock Report.

WAIT!!

Before I go there, I gotta know: is anybody under 50 watching Celebrity Duets? Aside from me? What?! It's summer TV. It's cheesy TV. It's face-lift central. And it's completely hilarious. In a B/C-list kinda way. Marie Osmond's a judge! And she told someone he was too white! Little Richard's a judge tooo! And he told someone she was so good that, and I quote, "My big toe just went through my boot". And Cheech is on it. And Kenny Loggins will be appearing. What more do you need?

OK back to the rockers. Look, for better or worse, it's no Idol. But I'm completely addicted. Confession: I didn't tune into last year's INXS version. I wanted to, swear! But my Man banned all reality shows from our summer schedule and I complied. Meanwhile, he secretly tuned in and loved it. So this year, after much cajolling from my fellow TV hounds 'n whores, I jumped on the bandwagon. And I'm in in in!

And now that Art School Confidential is no longer a dark horse; now that he's taken his faux-tense stare and gone back to NY with a less-than-gracious "see you on the charts" as his parting words; now that all that and the lame-ass, ain't no-Roger-Daltry-mic-swinging has finally stopped; now,at last, we can concentrate on the final five.

Generous thanks must go out to my gal who has been a source of all things Supernova since the show began. Hucking me to watch, berating me for missing last year's, and providing me with ammo, lingo, and astute opinions.

Let's start with Magni, the white Will Smith. What? You don't see it? Look again. Strange cross-cultural refs aside, here's what you need to know about Magni: he's the solid guy. The nice guy. The family man. Sure, he's good. But he's a bit of a bore, no? And can the boys in the band mold him into their own little walking, talking puppet?

....like Toby? Evs from Oz is a total keener. And, from the looks of it, relies on his mimicry to get by. And yet...the dudes LOVE him? Why why why? The laddish lout makes a big song and dance about being the go-to-party-card. Is this a good thing? Or will it blow up in his face?

...Like Dilana's cockyness? Personally, I see little difference betwen this very dirty girl (literally, dirty. Somebody wash her.) and those little trolls that go on top of pencils. The ones with the neon pink hair... That's Dilana. A talent, to be sure. But such a screamer! So unappealing. And may I steal a certain someone's twist on T.Lee's words? 'Cuz I'm going to: Dilana, I don't wanna!

...Storm's another story altogether. I think I have a bit of a straight girl crush on her. OK, I know I do. She's got the pipes, she's got the looks, she's got the moves. And she's so so so not right for them. But I love her. So she should live and be well and make it 'til the end. Even tho' I know she won't.

...Unlike Lukas! Yep, our local boy is really the bomb. Talk about stage presence. The boy can blow (not that way dirtbags) and he's pretty incredible. But after watching him with the band last night, I gotta say, I think he's too good for them. I do! So I kinda hope he's there til the end so we can watch him strut his stuff, but that he doesn't win, if for no other reason than this: he can do better.

I know, I know, they're the big shot rockstars. Whatever. He's a kid. Untapped. Rarin' to go. And the Supernova Sound...is it just me, or is that the worst part of the elimination show? With a hey hey hey and a ho ho ho? Umm, yeah ok guys, reeeeeally scary intense rock there. Whatev.

It's not too late to hop on board and tune in. Really, if you haven't already, you should. Not just to see Tommy Lee being an ass. Not just to hear Jason Newstead pay forward his own therapy sessions. Not just to realize that Gilby Clark, whoever the hell he is, looks like Val Kilmer and that, with some strategic scrubbing, he might be kind of attractive. And not just to see for yourself if I'm right in saying that Dave Navarro looks like Prince. No, you should tune in because Rockstar Supernova, well, rocks.

And it's on thrice weekly.

Yep, Mondays at the Manse. Tuesdays they perform. And Wednesday's child goes home.

Look, the fall lineup is still a few more weeks away, so why the hell not?

ALMIGHTY STENCH

"Gee your hair smells terrific".

Remember that? Betcha haven't heard it in a while, huh? Not the ad, the sentiment. Know why? Cuz we're stinkers. That's right: Stinkers. Yep, like it or not, that's what we've become. A civilization of stink bombs.

From cloying creams to sickening spritzes, we all reek. And not of B.O. Nope, the smelly days of yesteryear, where a somewhat high pit could make or break you, are long gone....Replaced by a slew of pharmaceuticals designed to cover up anything remotely natural and replace it with fruity not-so-freshness.

Look, don't get me wrong, I'm all for fragrant, erm, enhancements. I slather on the deodorant and enjoy a squirt of perfume as much as the next gal. In fact, I'm a product whore! But it's the actual scents - or should I say flavours - that put me off.

Get this - I went to buy shampoo the other day. Hardly brain surgery. But finding one that doesn't smell like honey-coconut-butter with a hint of cherry? Nearly impossible. I popped open practically every bottle in the shop, hoping against hope of finding something, well, nice. No luck. Only Finesse deserves kudos, stinkin' it old school clean.

What happened to the blue and green smells? Y'know what I mean - the fresh ones? Hop into your local and it's all red, yellow and orange stenches. In other words, candy, fruit and puke. Even white smell is gone, replaced by vanilla. Gross.

And don't think you'll score with a high-end bottle of bubbles either. Not only does it not make one lick o' difference in how your hair turns out (or so my salon savvy spies tell me), but you'll spent upwards of fifteen bones for a bottle of cucumber-melon-sage. Yep... Food.

In some places, they take their fragrant issues quite seriously. My stinky Bikram yoga classes used to have a sign saying no perfumes of any kind, from deodorant to fabric softener. I of course ignored that one. 100 degrees sans deod? Uh, think not. And a towel without fabric softener is like, well, a towel without fabric softener. Sandpaper. At least Bounce has the whole outdoor fresh scent going for it.

The deodorants are as tricky as the shampoos - one day you buy something called Optimism and it smells like, well, deodorant. And when you go back for more it's called Courage and smells like peaches. That they could ban.

In some cities they don't let you out in public if you're too smelly. Manufactured, chemical smelly, that is. I swear! I think it's Halifax. If you're too whiffy, you're off the bus. I kind of get it. Especially in the morning rush hour. I mean, puh-lease, something like Angel or Giorgio or a handful of uber-musk aftershaves are most pungent in the AM - AND they last all day too. No rest for the wicked. The wicked stench.

So please, somebody stop the madness. Stop the Paris' and Jessica's of our overexposed world from putting out....anymore candy coated lotions and potions. Cities and smog and ozone oh my! Can't we at least smell so fresh and so clean clean while we're here? Maybe, dear readers, you could tell two friends, who'll tell two friends, who'll tell two friends...and so on... and so on... and so on....

MR. IRRITABILITY

A friend of mine just sent me a link to an article about Johnny Drama.

You DON'T know who that is?! Helloooo? He's only the best thing to happen to Entourage since Entourage became the best thing to happen to summer tv since Nip/Tuck!

Got that? Yeah, I know Entourage has been around a couple of seasons. I remember watching a couple of episodes back in the day when I was working. When it wasn't out on Canadian TV yet. And when I had to pretend it wasn't nearly as good as our beloved show. It was (and is) way better. But that was then. This is now - the year Entourage went from passing interest, to PVR-worthy, to must-see PVR-TV. In part on its own merit, but also because it didn't have a lot of competition in the summer viewing competition. Rockstar Supernova being the exception. LOVE IT. OBSESSED.

But more on that another time.

So the gist of this article my friend so kindly passed my way is basically how Johnny Drama is the bomb, how that type of character is the best American tv has to offer, etc. But in referencing pathetic losers like JD and his Seinfeldian predecessors, Mr. Rosenbaum neglected to acknowledge another, as he puts it, "Icon of Irritability". Any thoughts? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? (and does everyone know the guy who played the principle in Ferris passed on this year? A little off topic, but a worthy FYI)

But let me repeat the question: anyone know of another key TV portrait of irritability?

No?

He's one of my all-time fave characters, on one of my all-time fave (and sadly cancelled) shows of recent years....Ladies and Gents, put your hands together for...

GOB.

AKA George Bluth II. AKA Will Arnett.

But to me, he will always be Gob. That spelling! (For those of you not-in-the-know it's pronounced like the biblical Job, which in turn is not prounounced like the work sitch I don't have but rather, "Jobe") Who's cheesier-in-a-good-way? Who's so stupid-he's-genius? Who is that hilarious in the realm of irritable characters? Mr. Drama is amusing, but COME ON - he doesn't hold a candle to Gob, R.I.P.

Let's have another moment of pause before we snap back to today, to Entourage. To the article. To the fact that Johnny Drama merits his own space. 'Cuz it's true, as fab as Agent Ari is, as clever as his comebacks may be, the genies who write the show seem to rely on him more than they should. Yeah, he makes us laugh out loud, but he doesn't bring a smile to the face the same way that Johnny D. does. And E. doesn't. And Turtle definitely does not. And Vince? Hell, he brings an entirely different type of smile to this girl's face. Let's just say he's on That List, along with Hugh J.

Maybe we all love Johnny Drama because he's the loser we laugh at AND with. And because he's the one we thank our lucky stars we are not. Whatever and whoever he is, catch him while you can...only two eps left 'til fall line up. Woo hoo!!!

For those interested, here's the link to the article that inspired it all:
http://www.observer.com/20060821/20060821_Ron_Rosenbaum_pageone_ronrosenbaum.asp

SUMMER BOX OFFICE

What's with the film industry?

Come summertime, while they're busy taking holidays or making Christmas-time release masterpieces, we're stuck with a slew of shlock. Aside from some family fun flicks, it seems all that's out there are duds, suitable only for the dreaded demo: boys 8-18. Boys with a penchant for no-brainers. Boys with silly, gross-out toilet humour sensibilities. As for the rest if us, it's like it or lump it. For the most part.

Like everybody else, I went to see Pirates of the Caribbean. Unlike everybody else, I went kicking and screaming. We all know Johnny Depp is hot. But Johnny Depp mincing about in drag? More like luke warm. Yeah, he's funny. Yeah, he's still watchable, eyeliner and all. And yeah, he does a mean Keef Richards. But I still didn't want to go. The charms and derring do of 'Lando Bloom were no match for the enormous pain in the butt that is Keira Knightly. Yeah, she's gorgeous (open-mouthed smiles aside). Yeah, she's British and yeah, she - or her agent - has good tast when choosing roles. But she's the next Winona. And is that a good thing? You tell me. Alas, I went and we watched and yo ho ho and swashbucklers forever. It was a summer flick. And that means ish.

Want another example? The Brothers Wilson. What were they thinking, doing such lame-ass pics? More importantly, what was I thinking? I fell into the it's-a-chick-flick-but-how-bad-can-it-be trap. The one that gets you every time - 'cuz they're always THAT bad. I confess, I saw both My Super Ex-GF AND You, Me and Dud-pree. And to make matters worse, I went for the back-to-back double header! I snuck into the second flick, so at least I didn't have to pay. But karma has a way of paying you back: the freebie, like it's paid-for counterpart, blew. Sure the Wilson boys are hot. And their ladies were hot. And after all the gushy interviews I wanted to look for signs of chemistry between Ms. Hudson and O. Wilson. (there was none with Matty D. Not a drop...in interviews or on film) And now that Katie is newly single, who wants to bet she goes for the gold? Or the - ahem - butterscotch? Crow or Stallion: who would you choose?

But I digress.

Kiddie flicks and stoooopid boy humour aside, there are a small handful of pics worth leaving the patio for. But the only one I've actually seen is Scoop. Y'know, the not-so-new Woody Allen flick? Finally saw it yesterday. A matinee. What a truly fine bit of afternoon delight it was. Re-ow!

In two words: Hugh Jackman.

Hugh Jackman.

Hugh Jackman.

Hugh?! Who knew?! Beneath the board-treading Wolverine lies something truly divine: Hugh Jackman. My gal pal and I were breathless at the sight of him. And who wouldn't be? Charm? Check. Passable Anglaisy accent? Check. Clothes that look magnificent on and off his crazy cut chiseled bod? Check check check. The man is the definition of tall, dark and handsome. Plus, he's sex on a stick. He turned us into drooling, slobbery fools. He turned us into lovesick teens. He turned us into....BOYS!

The movie was good, don't get me wrong. It was delightful and de-lovely. Not the most complicated of flicks, but so what? Totally worth seeing. Even aside from ever-so-hot Hugh. Woody was less pervy lech and more funny fatherly. Grandfatherly, but who's counting? Throw in some Scarlett for the boys and everybody's happy. It's sharp and funny and set in London. Add it up and it's well-worth the price of admission.

And have I mentioned Hugh Jackman? Apparently, the more mature ladies have known about the Jackman charms for years. Not me. I didn't get it. Not at the Tony's, not on stage, not in that cheesy Meg Ryan flick, and certainly not with all the facial hair.

But girls, it's all about Hugh. That's the real scoop.

HOME SWEET HOME

I'm ba-a-a-a-a-ck. Yep, after 10 days of enduring - I mean, enjoying - a vacation up at the family cottage I'm home....And now I'm ready for a real holiday.

I remember the day we left, getting ready to pack up the car... My Man looked at me adoringly and asked, "Are you excited?"

I stared dumbly back.

He continued. "For our vacation?"

I stared some more.

"Vaycay my ass!!!" I yelled.

OK, I didn't really. Didn't even come close. But I thought it. And added many expletives to that thought. And then I gazed back and replied, "Can't wait, lover".

Don't get me wrong, a good time was had by all. It was a special time. A precious time. A time of bonding. And, in many ways, a time of bondage. For me anyway. Y'see, when I think summer vacation, I think fun in the sun. And sure, we had that. Lots of it. But I also think relaxation. The only exertion being one of choice. Y'know, like an activity. Hike, bike, swim (or, in my case, sleep, eat, hang). It's easy math: Summer + Holiday = lazy days. But throw the family into that equation and what do you get? Work.

Work work, work....doesn't anybody, ahem, lounge anymore?

The answer is a whopping no. As an unemployed mother, being on a family vacation at the family cottage is basically exactly like being at home. Only there's no daycare, no programs, no nanny. Just the whole gang, the parents of the gang, and the friends and relatives and neighbours of the gang. All rip roarin' ready for a damn fine time.

That said, I've got it good. I know many a fool who plans every detail and then...SURPRISE! Their parents, their parents' friends, their parents' friends' kids and all manner of hangers on descend upon them. In our case, we chose the revolving door method. In with one group, out with another, and so on. So while it was kind exhausting with lots of mouths to feed, we made 'em all sing for their supper. They came. They cooked. They cleaned. We were all comrades, slaving - I mean, caring - for each other's kiddies as if they were our own. Hell, if we weren't having a vacation, no one else was either.

In retrospect, it was great. I'm recovered now. And it's easier said with the rose-coloured specs and all that. But maybe that's the design for life when it comes to the vacance en famille. In the old days I'd go on vacation and come back refreshed but also a little depressed. Now, I've returned from time away with the brood and couldn't be happier to be home...In my own space... Where I can plan a real holiday...

CROCS CROCS AND MORE CROCS

I've never been so popular. Never. Who knew a post about Crocs could cause such an uproar? Arouse such passions? Pull so many opinionated folks out of the woodwork? Not I.

Fair readers, you only get to see the comments the brave and the brazen post on the blogsite. But trust me, I've had other emails and calls too. There's a war going on and the folks are up in arms. But not about the Middle East. About Crocs.

So here's what we know: they start in kids' size 8/9 in Canada, but you can find falsies that are smaller - now that's not something you hear too often, is it?! There are knock offs on just about every corner and, rumour has it they even have Croc kiosks at airports popular with holidaymakers. Like, er, Boston. We also know it ain't the shoe that's stinky. Sorry kids, but my sources have found that it's not the wear, it's the wearer!

So yeah, every kid and their father seem to have Crocs. A friend of mine who swore she'd never succumb to peer pressure did just that - and her whole family's Crocified. One of my candy mags even had a pic of my Man's man Jack wearing them. Navy ones. The caption? "This trend must end". I guess Mr. Nicholson is where fashion trends go to die. Tho' it doesn't seem so.

As y'all know I had trouble tracking them down. (And thanks to everyone with their tips, spottings and sightings. How ridiculous is this? For shoes? Hideous shoes?) When I finally tracked down a couple of pairs of honest-to-goodness eyesores I was shocked. Talk about a feeding frenzy! And it was all about the butchy navy Crocs. Everyone was after them. I snagged a couple of pairs - for boys big and small - and proudly made my way home. Triumphant.

My Man wears his - but is very selfconscious about it. Not only because they're the summer Ugg, but because duh, they're the summer ugly. He's no trendoid so he was a little tense. Until we went walking and it rained and they were so comfortable - wet AND dry blah blah blah. But my boy - he ain't convinced. Like his mama, he knows the good from the bad and the ugly. And he refuses to put them on his feet. Not even 3 years old and already a shoe snob. That's my baby!!

Ladies, please, trust me. Ditch the Crocs unless you're gardening. DO try them at home - but not in public. If your teenage daughters want them, by all means, encourage it. Hell, buy 'em two pairs. They're so unsexy, they're prophylactic. Again, let's remind ourselves: they're cute and comfy and useful. FOR CHILDREN. AND MEN. No woman really wants a purely "useful" shoe. It's like getting cleaning gear for Mother's Day. And who the hell wants THAT?!

NOT A CROC

I remember my first spotting. A neighbourhood chicita making her merry way down my street. Nothing out of the ordinary...until I noticed her shoes. Garish neon pink, holes on the top, kinda cloggy, completely hideous. I chalked it up to a one-off fashion crime, never dreaming that what I saw was one of zillions.....

Crocs. They're here, they're HIDEOUS, get used to it.

And then a funny thing happened. Amid all the hoopla, I did. Get used to 'em, that is. And then an even funnier thing happened. Funny-strange, not funny-haha. I became a little intrigued.

The thing is, I am and always have been a clog girl. My faves were my old brown ultrasuede ones with the raffia band over the top. Fabulous. I had black suede ones too. Showed dust something awful. And of course who can forget the true classic: treetorn clogs. Come on people, you know the ones: navy or white leather...A sleepover camp staple if there ever was one. Until they were banned. 'Cuz all the girlies (and some boys) were tripping over their feet and spraining their ankles. But still, dragging your heels, clip-clopping along in your clogs...nothing beat it.

Until now. The clog, in the form of the almighty croc, is back. And, tho' I hate to admit it, I've kinda jumped on the bandwagon...

WAIT!!! It's not like I'm wearing them - puh-lease. They're revolting. But at least now I get it. Sorta. You see last week family friends came to visit us at the cottage. I hadn't seen them in years. And there they all were: Mama Croc, Papa Croc and two little Baby Crocs. The only one NOT in the damn shoes was the baby. And he might've been had they come in smaller sizes. After many furtive glances at the family's feet I had to ask: Why? They rsvp'd with the usual litany of praise - they're so light, so comfy, so cheap.

So what? They're ugly!

But then I watched the ease with which Mama Croc got her babes to put their shoes on. Saw the pleasure Papa Croc got from whipping 'em off to jump on the trampoline. My man thought maybe he'd like a pair and I realized:there really was no escape.They're here to stay.

And if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

After hitting the streets to track down a couple of pairs - one for the Boy, one for the Man, I realized not only were they hot - they were sold out. Everywhere. DEVASTATION! And now I'm desperate. And have hit the world wibe web to track down any non-beige ones. No, no, not for me. Why would I subject my size 9's to such fashion agony? It's not winter. For me, the quick-fix-all-purpose-summer-shoes have been around forever. They're called flip flops.

But I reasure myself that I mst be the perfect wife and mother. Not only letting my boys be seen in such fashion fiascos. But encouraging it.

Hey, it's not like I'll ever be caught dead in a pair. Not yet anyway....

CAN YOU REPEAT THE QUESTION?

I was getting cawfees with an out of town pal yesterday, when I bumped into a long lost cousin. One of those people you've known throughout your life and you know they're kinda related but you don't actually see them as cousins...That kind of cousin. Anyhoo, we started chatting and after covering the basics - how are you, where are you, what are you - we went our separate ways.

On no, wait. After a small prompt, he told me all that he was doing, ending the soliloquay with "single, no kids". I said I was married, two kids. And then the conversation kinda stopped. In fact, it was less a convo than me asking the how's, where's and what's. Is it just me? Answer, answer, answer...Doesn't anybody ask anymore?

I started doing a bit of research. A teeny, tiny, bit. And it's not just me at all. Apparently there are several factors to the non-question convo.

There's the dud conversationalist. You all know 'em, you've all been 'em. For whatever reason, they - or you - have pas de interest. 'nuff said.

There's the cover up. Either you really couldn't give a rat's ass (see above) or perhaps you're kinda curious but cannot for the life of you remember who this person is or how you know them and so you refrain from asking. AFter all, you don't want to bust yourself. In this case, one often overcompensates by rambling about oneself, convinced it's a convo rather than a speech. Then one takes off. Fast. It happens. Or maybe one just wanted to boast. That happens too.

There's the don't-want-to-be-rude non-asker. You don't want to pry. 'Cuz you think it's rude. Yep, there are folks out there who feel it's rude to ask too many questions. They think they're stepping over some imaginary line. Or they don't want to potentially embarrass the unemployed. Actually, many underemployed cats I know would give their left arm to tell you about all the things they aren't doing. Which is maybe why no one wants to ask. Fair enough to some extent, but you gotta ask something. Me, I think it's rude not to. Show an interest, people. Or at least fake it. No one's asking how much you're earning or how much your bag costs (besides, if you have to ask...)

And then....there's the mom thing. This is the worst. And, worryingly, it's quite common. Once someone hears you're a mom they kinda clam up. Have no interest in parenting? Who does unless it has to do with your own issues??!! Few are the ladies who will open up about their sleeping/feeding/toilet issues to someone who ain't in the same boat (unless of course that's the question being asked - then the floodgates have been opened. Open 'em at your own risk!) But come on - you can still ask about the rest of the life!

My friend yesterday is a mom. And a very successful book editor (the editrix, remember?!). And she lives abroad. And is totally glamorama. And she told me people often hear the mom part and clam right up. Another friend of mine is on the cusp of something huge - business-wise. She said people have only started asking her questions since she's told them that yeah, she's a mom, but also starting this business...Then they're interested. Or maybe they want discounts. Whatever.

CONVERSATION = communication between two (or more) people. If you don't want to chat, fine. Wave, smile, kiss, whatever... Move on. Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies. But ask me no questions and think I won't notice? I will.

TAKE ME HOME COUNTRY ROAD

You know you've turned into a grandmother (or, more specifically, my grandmother) when suddenly the act of driving becomes a 'thing'. Not regular city driving - puh-lease, road rage aside, that's a piece of cake... Unless a very good or very bad tune comes on the radio and you need to fiddle around with controls and lose your concentration and...wait, where was I. See? Here and on the road.

No, city driving it is not. The 'thing' is the not-that-new and not-that-irrational fear: highways at night. Or in the rain. Lord help us all if it's the 1-2 punch of a rainy night. God forbid poo poo poo. See? My grandmother.

I was recently invited to a friend's cottage. For the day (I hate going to other peoples' cottages for any longer than a few hours. More on that another time). We organized everything - when I'd come, what I'd bring blah de blah blah. Except on the morning of, I woke up to news... Weather news. Rainy weather news. I called my friend who totally understood if I wanted to cancel - turns out she, too, has these rainy road issues. But no, I decided to be a grown-up and hit the road - rain or shine. Besides, while it was torrential up by the lake, it was just a little misty here at home.

So off we went, me and my baby boys. On the road again. Singing along to the always cheesy, yet somehow entertaining songs of my sons' Music Together class disc. After we'd heard "We're on the way to grandpa's farm" in Spanish for the fourth time I noticed the rain coming down. Hard. No, make that really hard. I took a deep breath and soldiered on. I was a grown-up woman. A mother for Chrissakes. What if there was an emergency and it was raining? I wouldn't drive? COME ON.

Well of course it was soon pouring. Cats 'n dogs and every other animal from Abuelo's bloody farm. And I was terrified. White-knuckled, jaw-clenched, might-just-lose-it terrified. I could barely see in front of me. Slowing to a crawl, I slid over to the right lane (my grandmother). I leaned forward, trying to peer over the steering wheel (my grandmother). And when cars whizzed past me leaving me, quite literally, in their wake, I cursed them. But not my usual potty mouthed swear words. Tame ones. Y'know, bastard. Idiot. Those kinds. The kind of words - you guessed it - my grandmother would use.

Of course when I looked in my rear view and could only see massive trucker headlight I truly lost my shit. Then the worst-case-scenarios began. And I'm pretty sure mine were far more brutal than anything my grandmother could dream up. Beyond the "what if I crash" and into "what if I crash and I can't speak and someone abducts my kids" kind of nightmares.

God forbid poo poo poo.

Needless to say I made it there. And back. And, determined to be really brave I even drove home. In the dark. No way was I becoming some old lady about it. OK, and no way was I missing dinner. But I made it. And I'd do it all over again. Bring on the rain. Hard as you can. Moonless, foggy night? No problemo. Like my grandmother, I think I'll be able to see more clearly... navigating from the passenger seat.

THE DEVIL WEARS PATRICIA FIELD

Shiver me timbers. Yo ho ho and a bottle of Malibu.

What's with the pirate motif you ask? I dunno...Just trying to figure out how the entire movie-going world can be bothered going to see a flick based on a Disney ride rather than going to play outside. If you must sit in a darkened theatre - and I, for one, must - head straight to DWP.

Duh - Devil Wears Prada!

Finally saw it last night after a couple of false starts, sold out runs, and Dairy Queen diversions. And let me tell you, it didn't disappoint. Was it a brilliant work of art? Er, no. Oscar worthy? Ummm, a bit of a stretch. A damn good ride? Hell yeah!

When I saw the trailer last week, I knew I'd like it. How bad could it have been, really? Kinda like the book itself - sorta cheesy, but who the hell cares? It's entertainment. Truth be told, I cannot for the life of me remember if I read the book. I think I did. But I also read The Nanny Diaries, and some other ex-fuax-se about a celebrity tabloid reporter. And they're all kinda the same for me:young ingenue meets bitchy employer, tries to be "one of them" but remains true to herself by staying one of us. It was one of those books I wished I had written. Except as weird as my years working for a big shot English-gone-Hollywood movie director was (at times), it was never really that book-worthy. Anecdotes a-plenty. Scandalous behaviour? Only if I spiced it.

But back to the movie. It's the perfect summer flick. And not just a chick flick either. Boys, don't be afraid: the cinema was packed with your kind. It was actually kinda weird how many men were there. Straight men. Maybe they came to pick up women. Or maybe they were out to revel in their true metrosexuality. Whatever, they enjoyed it too. Everyone there seemed to enjoy it (yep, we had the over-enthusiastic fans near us. The groaners. The whoopers. The worst.).

DWP was an actor's - and wardrobe person's- movie. Less a character-driven ensemble piece, tho' I s'pose you could call it that. No, it was about the performances. These cats owned their roles (for the most part).

First of all, Ms. Streep. Genius! She's perfect, perfect. It ain't breaking news - she's got the ice queen down pat. Hence all the buzz. So nothing new to report there. But did you know Stanley Tucci's quite the cool queen himself? Divine! I've never been a huge fan of Mr. Tushy, I'll admit. Maybe because I was obsessed with Murder One way back when. He was Richard, the creepy guy who did it. The murder, that is. Remember? Anyhoo, he's terrif in DWP.

And props (yep, I said props) to Anne Hathaway. Not too horsey, not too doe-eyed, not too keen. She almost broke Brokeback Mountain for me. Made me want to hurl. So it was with extreme skepticism that I approached the theatre. But not only didn't she wreck the flick, I thought she was quite good. Believable, beautiful, and - that boatnecked-and-buttoned-up combo with the cap and layered necklaces aside - she owned those outfits! Not that the outfits were anything I'd pine for....But they served their purpose - to make Patricia Field a lot of money and keep that Sex in the City trendoid cheese look in our collective consciousness.

Oops. I almost forgot about Emily Blunt: Fab. And Adrian Grenier: Vince. The other folks were forgettable and/or insignificant so we'll fast-forward over them. Especially fashion-boy-love- interest-guy from that kids'-lawyer-advocacy show that flopped. But you get the picture. So skip on the Pirates in their has-been boho garb and head straight to Prada - if for no other reason than to see what you'll be wearing this fall.

PLAN B

It’s one o’ those grey and rainy summer days. The kind that make you want to crawl right back into bed and lay there all day long. The kind that you daren’t admit you like – simply because it takes the pressure off of having to do something outddorsy and summery and fun. The kind affectionately known at summercamp as a Bunk Day. The kind that, as an unemployed mother of two, I have come to dread beyond belief.

Yep. It’s one of THOSE days. And not only because of the kidlets…Museums (shouldn't it be 'musia'?), indoor playspaces and basements – even damp and possibly moldy-god-forbid ones – are good on days like today. Remember? No pressure to be outdoorsy and summery and fun? But on days like these when the kids are napping and your house is somewhat in order and you can’t deal with crawling into your bed because of guilt issues, on days like these the mind wanders to that special place affectionately known as Plan B .

Aaaah Plan B, we barely knew ye. In fact, you never really know your Plan B because if and when Plan B becomes Plan A, it’s not Plan B anymore. Geddit?

Remember back in the day when you were young and foolish? There was always the Plan B-er. The boy –or girl – who was besotted with you. The insurance policy. So what if (in the land of teen flicks) you didn’t have a prom date? You had the back-up. And then (in the land of teen flicks) you end up falling for the back up, realizing the homecoming queen and the quarter back were really meant for one another - and chances are they’d peak in high school anyway. In real life, you probably never thought twice about the loser who was into you. Until you got dumped and turned to them, only to find they’d moved on. And then you pined. In part because your Plan B back-up had split, but also because you felt like a bit of a…shall we say…loser. But that was then. Back in high school. This is now. And it’s still the same.

Only now, for me, it’s jobs. A the beginning of the summer there were some potentials, just shy of a handful. One I wanted. Three I didn’t. I was quite cocky about the one I did want. I’d met the gang, fit right in. For sure I’d get it. For sure. And so right off the bat I ditched Potential Job #2. Didn’t pursue it and didn’t think twice. Then came PJ #3. An editrix (love that word) friend of mine was looking for someone to write a book about Karaoke. Yes, Karaoke. And she so kindly thought of me. The money was crap, the gig was harder than I thought and writing a sample was incredibly frustrating (tho’ somewhat illuminating – did you know that the guy who invented Karaoke never made a dime? Or, rather, a yen?) I prayed I wouldn’t get it. And when they went with a Karaoke expert (huh?!) instead of an enthusiastic faker like me I was relieved. After all, I was a shoo-in for the dream job and, besides, I had a Plan B.

Plan B was writing for a TV show I was beyond qualified to work on. It wasn’t my first choice, hence the moniker Plan B (duh.). But I was pretty sure I was pretty perfect for it. Before you think I’m way too cocky for you to stomach, please understand, you know when you’re “in” and you also know when you’re right for something. Mutually exclusive, sure, but instincts count for something, right? WRONG. I was way off-base. Like out-of-the-ballpark-in-the-worst-possible-way kind of off-base.

I didn’t get either job. And I was devastated.

I was beyond pissed that I lost out on the Dream Job. But even worse was the sad and sorry fact that my Plan B didn’t want me. They didn't want me. First I was irate. Then I was depressed. And then I got desperate. I wanted to call, write, grovel. Beg them to change their mind. Thak goodness my agent kept me in check. Gave me a telephone slap-in-the-face and told me to get over it. I had less than a 1-in-10 chance of getting any of these gigs. Move on. And I did. Or at least I pretended to. Sure I was sad about the A-list job, but it was losing the Plan B-er that really put me over the edge. I know, I know, neither one was meant to be. When (if?!) the right thing comes along I’ll know. Blah blah blah. How does that help me cope now??!!

I’ll tell you how. The weeks have passed. It’s been a glorious summer and I have actually enjoyed being unemployed and spending time with my babes. But on rainy days like today, I still try and picture myself doing something else. And when nothing comes to mind, I scramble to think up a Plan B. And, of course, on days like today, I draw a big, fat, blank.

I guess I could always crawl back into bed and wait for the sun to come out. It always does….